


Slice of Life

by MirrorandImage



Series: Assassin's Creed Novelization [10]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Evie trying to cover for Jacob, Gen, Henry smarter than anyone realizes, Jacob tries hard, Missing Scene, Siblings, he really does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2020-05-18 08:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19330615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirrorandImage/pseuds/MirrorandImage
Summary: In which Jacob makes another mess, Evie cleans up after him, and Henry tries to be useful. Takes place in the second half of the game, minor spoilers. Rated for Jacob's potty mouth.





	Slice of Life

Evie Frye let out an exasperated sigh. The train had pulled in to the train yard for the night and Agnes had several members going over every inch of the train for routine maintenance, sprucing up and all the little things she insisted on to make the train run as smoothly as possible and up to her exceedingly high standards.

Honestly, Evie was glad for the break, but she was still exasperated. Her brother Jacob had made a disaster, again, and she was going to have to go and unruffle some feathers. Again. As if straightening out the British economy wasn't enough after the mess Jacob had made of the bank.

Now, instead of a wider scale catastrophe, Evie was going to have to do the much finer and delicate work of navigating hurt feelings. Jacob, with all the subtlety of an ox, had stomped over and taken another block of territory from the Blighters. That wasn't a problem. The Blighters and their cruelty were well known, no matter how well dressed their thugs were. But Jacob had made a spectacle of it, like he always did, and the citizens of the block clearly believed the Rooks to be no different, especially with Jacob very publicly taking in the gang members of the Blighters after a bloody war that went through three streets and four alleys. The people who weren't part of the gang, who struggled daily to survive, thought their new masters no better. And Evie had her work cut out for her to change their minds.

"Jacob," she said, burying the exasperation and frustration, "would it hurt to try and not be so flamboyant with everything?"

Her brother gave his usual care-free smile. "What's the problem this time, Evie?" he asked.

Knowing she couldn't bring up the real problem without her brother getting prickly, she diverted instead. "The income."

That had Jacob looking at her with more seriousness. For all of his showboating, all of his bluster, he _did_ care about his new toy of the gang and its maintenance and upkeep. He spent time with the individual members, looking after them. There was no denying that some of them saw a much better life as a Rook than as the impoverished and disenfranchised they were. So coming from that sort of standpoint often could at least keep his attention. Of course, using that as a launch pad to discuss anything else was swiftly and categorically shut down.

So Evie swallowed her frustration and tried a more subtle approach. "The new block you took is refusing to pay protection money or pay our tax, let alone let us take over the pub so we don't have to even _use_ protection money."

Jacob frowned heavily. "That won't do," he muttered, clearly mulling it over. "I'll need to talk to the block head," he said standing up.

"I'll come with you," Evie replied, already slipping knives into sheaths. She didn't dare say anything more of her opinions unless she wanted a fight. Results were more important at the moment.

So they visited Graham, the Rook in charge of the train yard, its protection, supplies, and needs whenever their hideout came. He was a quietly efficient sort that Evie preferred and had insisted on for heading the train yard in one of the louder and more confrontational rows they'd had since forming the Rooks.

A former accountant of a smelting warehouse that had been bought up by Starrick and then fired with everyone else for Starrick's men, Graham was a clean cut man, whose whiskers were always impeccably precise, if ever there. Taller than Jacob, but built like a bean pole, Graham heard the request for a carriage, quickly got one of theirs and yanked Rupert to drive instead of the patrol he'd been assigned.

Within the hour, the Frye twins had arrived at an abandoned warehouse that they were using as a temporary base til they could get a local pub.

The block head, which Jacob took great childish delight in naming the position, was a former Blighter who was a born and bred local. Knew every nook and cranny, knew all the people, and had been in absolutely no position of power in the neighborhood as a Blighter. That was something Jacob always insisted on that Evie approved of: Anyone in charge in the Blighters had to earn their way back up, a way to keep an eye on them and show them how vastly different running the Rooks was to the Blighters.

Benedict, "Benny", was the block head; a thick stout man in his forties, deemed no longer fit for the work after losing his arm in a factory accident. Not having the education for a desk job, gang life had been his only option.

They all sat down in the office and Mary, a long time Rook, brought up some tea and a mug of beer, knowing the Fryes well. Jacob took the mug, Evie the tea, and Benny pulled from a hip flask with his one arm.

"Boss," Benny greeted. "Nice to have you back."

Jacob smiled, but then settled into the Firm part of "Firm but Fair."

"Our income isn't coming in as it should," Jacob brusquely stated leaning forward. "That's not good. Most blocks and territory are happy to have us. What's wrong here?"

Benny shrugged his shoulders. "Bunch of pissants," he said easily. "Don't show no respect to no one."

Jacob leaned forward further. "What have you done to earn their respect?" he asked in a deceptively cool voice.

Benny drank from his flask. "Shouldn't need to do nuthin'," he replied. "I worked in that factory for over twenty years, I sweat blood for them right up til I lost me arm. Join the Blighters and get kicks and scoffs and all I do is put money in an envelope and put it on a bench." Evie perked, realizing there was information here for her to use. If they had a courier service and were able to access it – Henry, Mr. Green – would be able to place his contacts accordingly and then they'd be swimming in information... maybe even learn the Templar progress on the Piece of Eden?

She leaned forward. "What do you mean-"

"You mean you ignored us?" Jacob asked, leaning back and hooking an arm over the back of his chair. He was looking down his long nose, now, a sign of his sudden and encompassing contempt. "What about the list we gave you? Mary!" he called down, one of their first members quick to come up.

"Another pint, Mr. Frye?" she asked.

"Has Benny here done any of the usual assignments?" he asked pointedly. "Gathered up the children for Clara? Contacted Bobby for a race? Hit up Freddie with a list of lost Blighters?"

Mary shook her head, shoulders sagging in a minuscule show of relief that both Frye twins saw. Evie opened her mouth to ask again about the envelopes and drop offs, but Jacob was in his element now, fully cloaked in the "Firm but Fair" gang leader, about to mete out justice on one he deemed unworthy. His eyes narrowed, and he turned a dark gaze to the unruffled Benny. "What did we say after we took the block, Benny?" he asked, voice low. Quiet. "What did we talk about when we agreed to make you the block head?"

Benny sniffed. "The girl gave me a list of suggestions," he said, chin jutting to Evie. "Suggestions mean they don't have to be followed. I didn't follow them."

Now even Evie was angry, her boyish face coloring. "And what of the money we gave you to seed to the families of the dead Blighters?"

Benny said nothing, didn't even look at her, gaze locked on Jacob. "You got an order for me?" he demanded of the younger brother. "Give it. Don't let some wet blouse pass it on. You earned the block, fair and square, so how 'bout you actually _do_ something about it? Instead you let your bloody _sister_ give the orders and put that ninny," he pointed arrogantly to Mary, "to watch me like a nursemaid. I've paid my dues, Mr. Frye. It's time you paid yours. If you won't lead, then I'll do as I please."

"Mary," Jacob said, breaking Benny's gaze and offering a bright, cordial smile. "Do us a favor, luv, get the Rooks here. The block, too."

The brunette nodded and left as Jacob returned his eyes, now very cold, to the block head. "You want to see me lead?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. " _Fine_. We'll see how you like it."

Jacob got up violently, chair scraping back and table shoving forward, into Benny's midrift and making him cough up excess air. Evie followed, exiting the small cordoned off office and into the empty shell of a factory. Jacob was gripping the rail of the upper catwalks, frown deep into his sideburns, back taught and eyes glaring at nothing. Evie knew that look too well, and knew moreover what often came of it.

"What are you going to do?" she asked softly, knowing moods like this didn't end well for anyone.

"He disrespected me, Evie," Jacob said, his voice low, somewhere between hurt and angry. "I've spent months trying to be a good leader, and he took all that effort and just spat on it."

She nodded, knowing her brother valued respect from his gang, worked harder than anyone to be worthy of it – especially in the beginning. He listened to his Rooks like he never did to Father, acknowledged how little he knew of London to start, took their advice and fought with them side by side. He bled with them, defended them, worked with them, listened to them. He even – unbelievably – listened to her advice on how to better organize and expand the Rooks. Evie had decidedly different goals for the Rooks than her brother, but they both wanted to see the gang succeed, and Jacob loved any idea that made his pride and joy do well. For Benny to dismiss the systems the pair of them had set up was a bruise to his ego as well as all the work he had done.

"What will you do?" she asked.

"Make an example."

Oh, that was a sodding _bad_ idea. A spectacle of this? In the Strand, where the Blighters were less gangs and more community outreach programs? No, no, that would be a _terrible_ idea.

"Jacob," she said quickly, and he heard her disapproval immediately and his already wounded pride prickled even more.

"Don't say it, Evie," he said, his voice almost a snarl. "Don't say that I need to be smart about this. Don't say that I shouldn't do it this way. _I'm_ in charge of this gang, what _I_ say goes."

And there was no changing his mind. Evie knew better than to argue when he was like this, and if she were honest with herself, she, too, felt slighted by Benny and wanted to see him punished. One mustn't let personal feelings jeopardize the mission, however, and Evie understood a long time ago that she would have to work harder than Jacob ever would to be respected and taken seriously. The laundry list of comments, dismissals, and other abuses barely touched her anymore. No, the two of them had to look at this logically, and Jacob would never be logical in a mood like this, and so it was up to her.

She went back into the office, Benny still sitting where they had left him and swigging from his flask.

"Finished your little spat, Evie?" the one armed man asked.

"That's Miss Frye, to you," she said archly, walking around the table, deciding on her approach. She didn't have a lot of time before the Rooks and the block was assembled, and whatever Jacob had planned. Better to keep this as professional as possible and get right to the point. "You say you would deliver money to park benches for the Blighters. Tell me more about that."

Benny sneered. "Ain't that so typical of your brother?" he said. "Making you do all the work for him?"

"And you know everything about my brother," Evie said derisively. "Or me for that matter."

"Don't need to know you," Benny said, taking another swig. His cheeks were decidedly rosy now, his inhibitions loosened and his true character showing through. "You're just the skirt your twat brother hides behind so he can cry in private."

How did either of them miss this when they interviewed the leftover Blighters? She pushed on.

"Tell me about the drop offs."

"No."

"I see." And then, quick as a flash, her hand darted out and her blade extended, slicing the muscle of his thumb and whisking the hip flask away.

"You bloody bitch!" Benny shouted, staring at his ruined hand.

"Let's try this again," she said brightly, sitting across the table know, folding her hands together and leaning forward. "You're not dealing with my brother right now; you're dealing with _me_. And unlike my brother, I'm a fair bit more... _focused_. Now. Tell me about the drop offs."

* * *

Jacob listened to Benny screaming back in the office, but it was only surface noise, his thoughts locked in a much deeper, darker corner of his heart. His memories drifted to the Clinkers, the pitiful handful of miscreants they'd saved from Kaylock. His first recruits. Barely a dozen, bloody and drunk and determined to take what they rightfully deserved. He remembered those first two months, hiding in Greenie's shop while training those Clinkers in back: stringing them up until they were sober, hitting them until they learned to duck, stitching them up while Evie taught them to read. Eight men, four women. The bloody coup from Kaylock lost half of them, but the rest were battle-hardened, determined, and beginning to see the bigger world that Jacob had envisioned.

They'd lost more, since then; some to Starrick's Soothing Syrup, some to a smuggling raid for Freddie that went south, one to a damn street race accident. But for every one they lost, they gained five or six more. They had all of eastern London in their control: Lambeth, Southwark, Whitechapel, even the innermost City. Block by block they took territory, and block by block Jacob had made something of himself.

He had hated Crawley, hated listening to Father lecture them when he was much better suited for going out and hitting things. Jacob Frye was a man of action, and being forced to sit still day after day and year after year had been torture – further exacerbated after their father died by Georgie Westhouse who so often shied away from ideas about London. The Templars had been in charge of the city for a hundred years, all the action was there, and over the years both Frye's had watched Georgie's caution melt into out and out cowardice. Invoking Father's name hadn't helped, and the inactivity was so _boring_. Inactivity was, in Jacob's mind, the same as cowering in fear.

He refused to cower.

Let Evie look for the useless Pieces of Eden, let Greenie pretend he knew anything about field work. Let the world _burn_ , as Roth once said, so long as he was doing something when it happened rather than sitting to watch. He was eliminating Starrick's lieutenants one by one, he'd done more work in a year than a hundred years of cowering in Crawley, he'd proven it could be done.

And now this git thought he could spit and not be called to carpet.

Roth had once talked about his days in the theatre and the circus, about how important the presentation was, how important an impression had to be. Jacob knew exactly what he wanted as a gang leader: firm but fair, democratic to only an acceptable percent, just as much a lad as the others. He played the part perfectly, the role was tailored to him as if he'd been born to it. For the first time in his life he was good at something, and there was no Father around to reprimand him. Even _Evie_ liked his Rooks, that was a victory of a lifetime.

And that damn Benny...

No. This wouldn't just be an example. This would be a _spectacle_.

Mary came up, green armband on, out of her skirts and in simple slacks and jacket. She'd changed for this. "They'll be here by sunrise," she said. "Most of the block is asleep."

"Good," he said. "That will give us time to set the stage."

"Yes, Mr. Frye," she said. She hesitated then, about to say something, but thought better of it and left.

Even Mary was questioning his judgement. It rankled. He hated being questioned _so much_. His father never had anything good to say about him, always singing Evie's praises. He never held it against her, she was always willing to help him out of a tight spot or take blame when she had no business to, and she couldn't help being the natural that Jacob never was. No, he held the blame squarely where it belonged: dear old Ethan "don't let personal feelings compromise the mission" Frye, who didn't let personal feelings compromise _raising his children_. Everything Jacob ever did was wrong, he had to push further and further to get the old wanker's attention. He'd lost count of the number of times Father pulled him out of the clink in Crawley, lecturing and shaking his fist and cursing at him for not following the bloody Creed.

But even that, even all the abuse he took from the old man, he could have chalked that up to "The Way He Was" if it wasn't for the fact that, after Ethan had died, Evie had _happily_ taken his place. Now _she_ told him what he was doing wrong, counseling on personal feelings when she was the penultimate hypocrite on the matter, and reminding him why he hated Father to begin with. He was finally building a place for himself, he was finally being successful. The Rooks had a huge swatch of territory, he had underworld connections that sank deep into the city, money came in steadily, and he was rooting out the Blighters left and right. He was doing things _his_ way and he was still _following the Creed_. He'd lost count of the number of train robberies and smuggler raids and Templar hunt's he'd done while Evie sat in the train next to Mr. Bloody Greenie reading books and flirting over Pieces of Eden.

His decisions _mattered_. His decisions _built_ things.

… _Why did people still question him_?

Rupert came up for orders, and the two of them walked down to the main level of the foundry, taking rope and cordoning off parts of the factory to emphasize where everyone was supposed to stand. Jacob looked around from the ground and decided to make his example on top of one of the massive vats. Were the factory active, giant pools of liquid metal would be there, boiling and waiting to be poured into molds, the pillar of mass production. Jacob pulled a chair from the office, only glancing at Evie's work on Benny and nodding in approval before heading back out and balancing it on the sill of the vat. He took his launcher and shot it up to the rafters, hoisting himself up slowly with the extra weight of the chain he had purloined and looping it around, making an elegant setpiece.

He leapt off the rafters to the startled cries of Mary and Rupert, landing elegantly on the sill of the vat and hopping down even further, cheeky grin on his face at the handiwork he and his Rooks had done. Now all he had to do was wait for his audience.

* * *

"Cold bitch..." Benny gasped.

Evie frowned and narrowed her eyes, but didn't comment. It was an attempt to insult from a cornered bully who couldn't hurt in any other way than words. Meaningless. Yet the words still cut through her.

_Don't let personal feelings interfere with the mission._

So she crushed the hurt she shouldn't be feeling and buried it. She'd heard insults before, being called a harlot for wearing pants or all the accusations since she didn't "carry herself like a proper lady," and all that. Such comments muttered when she walked the street no longer bothered her. Hadn't for years after a phase where she had tried to stay in dresses for a month and realized the impracticality of them and being unable to keep up with Jacob.

But hearing it from a Rook...

Even a Rook who had once been a Blighter...!

The Rooks _knew_ her. She might not have been as visible, might not have participated as much as Jacob, but the Rooks knew she was just as much in charge as her brother, cared for them and helped them. Maybe she didn't do it with the panache of Jacob, or the flamboyance, but she was with them.

Madeline was their eyes in the gang, who talked with everyone and listened and let the Frye twins know where things stood, what might need improving, if any sort of sentiment was turning sour. She constantly reported of the respect that the Rooks had, how the gang was surprised and pleased that they had no qualms with getting their hands dirty and would never delegate anything that they wouldn't do themselves. The loyalty, Madeline reported, was unwavering. Any Blighters were more mixed in their responses: Most were surprised with the meritocracy, that only those who earned it were promoted. Surprised at all the behind-the-scenes work that was done to support not just the Rooks, but the blocks and territory they controlled. Blighters weren't expecting to paint over graffiti, or cleanup their work spaces. To be treated like workers and not thugs. Workers who were respected.

Other Blighters had that streak of meanness, of buried anger that could explode if one touched a nerve, where the gang was the only release for such anger. Both Evie and Jacob worked closely with them. Providing other outlets for the anger like training others, or building things. Those that still couldn't adapt were let go, and rarely with hard feelings after seeing all the effort that everyone put in to try and help them.

Benny didn't see that. He couldn't see anything beyond his own bitterness and hatred. How did they miss this? How did this not show up before? They were both so thorough when it came to accepting a new Rook, especially from the Blighters.

_Don't let personal feelings interfere with the missions._

So Evie sat back. "I don't particularly care what you think of me," she replied. "In fact I'll take that as a compliment, since you finally seem to see that I'm not just a 'skirt.' "

Benny glared at her. "You're not a skirt. You're a demon straight from hell. Probably killed the poor woman that bore you."

Evie stayed still, letting the hurt wash over her. There was no way he could have known just where to strike with that. Instead she raised a brow.

"Interesting superstitions," she replied. She stood. She had what she needed. Times and places for dropping off envelopes. She would need to see Henry and decide how to observe and tail the locations. They hadn't trained her selected Rooks enough to be good at the more subtle facets of being an Assassin. Perhaps Clara's orphans? "Thank you for your time, Benny."

He spat at her just as Jacob came in.

He gave an ugly glare before turning to Evie. A black smile split his face. "Should you deal with that or shall I?"

Evie shrugged. "I'm done with him. He's all yours."

"Excellent!" Jacob said brightly.

She paused. There was something in that bright smile. Something unfamiliar. Something... harsh. Just what sort of spectacle was he planning?

Now concerned, the older Frye followed Jacob as he grabbed at Benny's shoulder and hauled him to his feet. Leaving the office brought a swell of sound, and on the main floor below were three dozen people, some were the newly minted local Rooks, but most were the citizenry: womenfolk in their shawls and bonnets, men in patched jackets and overalls, ready to go to the factories in Southwark to work. They looked around with no small amount of trepidation, looking at all the green armbands, the Raven symbols splattered on the walls. The Rooks were new players in the game, and no one knew what they would be like. Evie saw a chair on the edge of a vat, and she felt deep down in her bones that whatever her brother had planned would not end well.

She grabbed her brother's arm. "Just what are you planning?" she demanded.

"I told you already," he replied. "Making an example."

"Jacob," she said in a stern voice. "You are _not_ scaring the people who already don't pay us their dues. We can't afford to have them more fearful of us than they already are. Are you absolutely sure Benny will only be an example?"

He turned baleful eyes to her. "You sound just like _Father_ ," he said in a low voice. "He never trusted my judgment either."

"And with good reason," Evie replied, trying to step softly but wanting to stop this before it got woefully out of hand. "Jacob, you've always been more interested in the fight. And that's fine, there's a place for that in the Brotherhood, but you never think of the consequences – and that's a risk of compromising the Brotherhood. I know you don't want to do it, Jacob, and that you never mean to-" she realized her mistake as soon as she said the words, and she watched her brother close himself off completely.

"You say that like I've already compromised the Brotherhood." His words were soft, he not wanting to have this fight in front of the crowd but unwilling to let this go.

She would have to choose her words very carefully.

"Never intentionally," she said, "And we can have that discussion at a later date, I want to stay focused on the people here and making sure we don't absolutely terrify them with whatever stunt you're about to pull."

"It's not a _stunt_ , Evie," Jacob hissed. "It's a _performance_ to show them that they have to respect us the way _nobody_ ever has."

Evie was aghast, realizing his wound at being disrespected earlier cut much deeper than she'd initially thought. Was his pride really so powerful? She shook his head. "It cannot be about respect," she said. "Respect is earned – you know that better than anyone. You earned the respect of the Rooks, one at a time, and you earned the respect of all of Whitechapel; and Southwark and Lambeth. Ned loves working with you because you earned his respect. Don't assume that it should come automatically by now."

"Then when _does_ it?" he demanded.

"Never," she answered. "Respect should always be earned."

"It seems we disagree, dear sister," Jacob said in almost a snarly tone, his voice low and menacing, even threatening. "Maybe we should leave this decision up to the leader of the Rooks? Oh, wait. That's _me_."

And he turned and left her on the landing, leaping over the rail and into the crowds, seeking out the green armbands and whispering to them softly, giving them a hint of the program. In his silk top-hat and waistcoat, coat swishing below his knees, he looked almost like a gentleman; roguish, rugged, young and charismatic. He was a natural magnet for the Rooks, the ideal they all wished they could attain. The citizens of the Strand, however, saw a well cut but very dangerous rapscallion, disreputable and only playing at being a gentleman. This stunt, whatever it was, would not help their opinion of him. Evie silently started making plans to fix the mess he was about to make.

Benny was hauled up to the vat and placed on the chair, tied to place and secured with a Rook on either side as a chain was lowered and connected to the former Blighter. Several of the women were already gasping, hands covering their mouths, whispering back and forth what they knew about Benny.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Jacob said with a flair, hands spread wide and a cheeky grin inappropriately on his face. "I bid you welcome to this little demonstration. I apologize for the suddenness of the call and the dreadfully early hour. Many of you have work to do, and I will not interfere with your time cards or risk your income. The Rooks do not interfere with livelihood, a fear many of you – perhaps justifiably, knowing other gangs about London – had when we first took over. It seems there's been a bit of a misunderstanding in the last two weeks, one I wish to rectify."

He was suave, charming, almost sincere in his recitation, conciliatory and even. He was a gifted speaker when he set his mind to it, Evie had been pleasantly surprised to learn of this part of her brother when they came to London; and while he was acerbic and chronically rude in more intimate settings he was downright inspiring to large groups.

"When we first came here we had a meeting similar to this," he said, "Where we explained exactly what was going to happen to ease transition from the Blighters to us. We graciously took in Blighters rather than turn them to the streets: we made that claim and so we have. We promised to sponsor football tournaments; the next one is, as you know, forthcoming. We also promised that we would clean up the mess we made. That, I regret to inform you, has not yet happened.

"The promise was made broadly, I freely admit," Jacob said, pacing gracefully back and forth on the vat, yet to address the one-armed Benny. "The Rooks enjoy a good brawl now and then but mostly we keep to ourselves. We are ones who feel better knowing we did well rather than announcing it to the world. Now, however, we are forced to show a small portion of our hand: Four Blighters died when we took this block," he said, looking down ostensibly to watch his footing but Evie saw him give a glance to Mary and Rupert, who started to move behind the vat to the levers controlling the assembly lines. "Three men and a woman fought for what they believed in – honorably – and they left their families. The Rooks are not without compassion. Each family: Steve's wife and his seven children, Sarah's parents, Willie's children, Mark's best friend, they were all to receive quid to pay for their funeral and last them until they settled their lives down. Everyone, this was the mess we were to clean up. But one man has ruined that."

Now he pointed to Benny, locked in his chair, staring out over the people in contempt even as he struggled to stay balanced on the sill of the vat.

"This man!" Jacob cried out, voice echoing over the warehouse, bouncing and sounding momentous. "He took the money and spent it on himself!" He turned hateful eyes to the one armed man. "Do you deny it?"

"O'course I do," Benny said, not exactly calm. "You didn't give me nuthin'! Let your bitch of a sister give the orders and put that hussy on my arse to keep me in line."

"And what _else_ did you neglect to do, _Benny_?" Jacob said darkly.

"You made me the leader of this block," Benny insisted, "Told me to do as I pleased, and now you think killing me in front of people wot know me won't hate you for it?"

Jacob openly laughed, leaning back as his guffaws echoed over the warehouse. He turned with a delighted smile to the crowd. "Do you hear that?" he asked, giggle still bubbling his voice. "Even after explaining what we do, he deliberately, obtusely, ignored everything I just said to twist it into his own fantasy! How often has he done that to any of you? How many of you have a memory of telling him one thing, and he assuming another? How long has he been like this? How often has he done this? Did anybody ever give him money out of pity? Watched him drink it away with his little flask? How many of you offered him food and he whined about nobody treating him with respect?"

His words were powerful, Evie could see recollection on several faces, the occasional murmur, a nod of the head. Jacob was not telling the people of the block things they didn't already know, and many were smart enough to see that the Frye twins had given the one armed man a chance and it had once again been squandered. He was pulling the crowd to his side. Perhaps he wouldn't mess this up, she dared to hope; perhaps he did know what he was doing.

"And so I ask again, _Benny_ ," Jacob said, confident eyes turning back to the one armed betrayer. "What _else_ did you neglect to do with that money we gave you?"

" _I hate that nickname!_ " Benny hissed. "You just run over everyone on this block and be familiar and pretend to be charming and they'll all love you for it?!"

Oh, no. Jacob... Jacob keep you head about you...

"You think you're any better than the Blighters? Talking about rescuing children from the factories when you make them work as your spies – or grab honest people off the street and hand them over to the coppers? What about those of us you'll take to train as killers like you, eh? You think you're all hush-hush, _Jakey_ , but we all know what you'll do to this block! Look at you – even your own bitch sister wears pants and curses and kills just like you, don't none of you know your place, treat the womenfolk like men – you beat them too? Like that bitch Mary or that slut Agnes? Wot about the kids you 'rescued', no one's seen them since you filched them! You sell them to the _whorehouses_ in Whitechapel where you come from? Or do you take them for yourself like you did that little Clara bitch?"

Evie winced as she saw Jacob's wry face loose all humor, lithe posture switching to a simple straight back and lax arms. Few things ever worked out when he finally turned serious.

Jacob looked behind the vat and nodded to someone, and the ominous sounds of pulleys and chains echoed about the warehouse. Evie watched the chains holding Benny – Benedict – go taught and then start lifting him off the vat. Several people gasped when they realized what was happening, taking several steps back and heads tilting back in morbid fascination as Benedict was pulled higher and higher, almost to the rafters.

"Do you want to try again?" Jacob called out, levity absent from his voice. "Outline exactly what we wanted you to do with the money. Tell your block just what you failed to do for them."

"Sod off!"

" _Tell them!_ "

"Fuck you!"

Jacob lowered his gaze, and though his voice was quiet, everyone could read his lips in profile: "Drop him."

And for fifteen agonizing feet, Benedict was in freefall. Everybody screamed, not the least of which was Benedict himself, before the chain pulled taught again and he was yanked to a stop, swinging dangerously over the vat. Fear had prickled even Evie's sensibilities, for a split second she had thought Jacob was really going to do him serious harm, and that fear reverberated and amplified across the entire crowd – even the long time Rooks who knew Jacob best let out a silent breath that had been held to watch this stunt.

"I won't do this again," Jacob whispered, voice low and menacing like Evie had almost never heard before. She had never seen this side of him before. This was not the role of the gang leader – Firm but Fair – nor was this the wayward brother, nor was this the easily entertained brawler, nor was this the diligent Assassin. This was darker, meaner, more dangerous. Had this always been a part of him, or was this new? Evie didn't know her brother in this form, and she had no idea how they had grown so far apart that she never noticed this before. She hurt, somewhere deep inside, as she realized how serious things had gotten.

"Tell them," her brother demanded. "Tell them what you were supposed to do with the money."

"It's true!" Benedict shrieked. "I was supposed to pay off the families! Give names to the coppers! All of it! Just _let me down!_ "

And then the genial smile was back, returned so quickly as to be absurd, unsettling.

"See?" Jacob asked in a coy voice. "Was that really so hard?"

"I take it back..." Benedict lamented. "The bitch didn't kill your mother... you did!"

And Jacob's faced turned into something demonically hateful, and he kicked the still swinging Benedict in the head, knocking him senseless and motioning for the poor sod to be lowered into the vat. "Enjoy trying to crawl out of there," he said darkly, before turning back to the crowd. "Well then," he said brightly. "Meeting adjourned!"

* * *

Jacob stepped into the carriage, feeling distinctly proud of himself. He had indeed put on quite a show for the Strand. Firm was fully on display, as well as Fair. He'd outlined all of Benny's sins, made it clear that dear old Benny _had it coming_ , served out punishment and that was all. Point made, error fixed, it could all get back to normal now. The Strand would pay their small protection fee, they'd start setting up the pubs and start pulling in some _real_ money. There was an embroidered overcoat he'd had his eye on, perfect for presentable style, since they would eventually get into Westminster. Wonder what Roth would say about his little performance?

Evie sat across from him, swaying in time with the carriage, and she had a strange look in her eye, like she didn't know him, but that made no sense. So he gave her his usual honest smile.

Her frown deepened.

"What was that, Jacob?" she asked quietly, staring intently at him.

"What was _what_ , Evie?"

" _That_ , brother dear," she replied coldly.

He narrowed his eyes and raised a brow "Well, _sister dear,_ that was the Rooks. Firm but Fair."

"No," she replied. "That was cruel. The Rooks aren't cruel. The Rooks only fight when needed, not before."

"You call that a fight?" he laughed, crossing his legs.

"I call it heartless," she hissed back.

"Please," he waved her concerns aside, "that was firm."

Evie's nostrils flared, clearly about to say something. Then she sighed. "I don't know you anymore, Jacob," she said softly, head tilting back and banging against the wall of the carriage. "I don't know what's happened to you. You're slipping away right in front of me and I don't understand _why_."

Jacob laughed again though more to cover his discomfort. He'd also felt the growing gap between them, and he had no idea how to close the chasm. He was just being free, free as he had never been in Crawley. The moment they'd jumped the train there had been no rules, no battered quotes from Father, no restrictions from Georgie, nothing but doing what one saw fit, what one thought was necessary. He had even _liked_ , in the beginning, that he and his sister had different objectives, because she wouldn't be on his back and they were both reaching for the same goal – he literally and she metaphorically. Everything is permitted. "You know me, Evie," he replied. "you've always known me. I haven't changed."

"You have, brother," Evie said softly. "You have a great deal. And it scares me that you can't even see it."

"Evie..."

But she had turned away and let out a tired sigh, settling back into the seat and raising her hood, clearly seeking some rest. Jacob realized that Evie had never returned to the train the prior night, meaning she had been researching with her dusty books and legends the entirety of the previous night. Yet she came anyway, never said anything about her discomfort, had questioned Benny and put up with his disrespect.

He sighed.

He wasn't doing a good job of helping for her. She was always helping him, but the last time he'd helped her he had been driving a wagon away from pursuers (that, truth be told, he had created) and being forced to leave behind a trunk of papers Evie had seen as valuable. When they were younger, they had covered for each other seamlessly. Evie offered excuses for Father and helped him though his studies and he pulled her out of the house and into the fields, teaching her how to fish and the best places to steal sweets. He made her have fun, dragging her out kicking and screaming until she was kicking and screaming for different reasons: in delight of finally catching her brother or dumping the Lincoln brothers into the river. He put her to bed when she fell asleep at the desk, made porridge when she was ill or corrected her form in practice.

It almost never happened anymore. If she needed anything she went to Greenie, and now she lectured him like Father did, and he didn't have a place in her life anymore. He was lost, sometimes, so lost on where he fit in in the world without his sister. If she didn't need him, that only left the Rooks, left Roth, and he held those connections tightly, afraid of what would happen if he lost them as well. He'd already messed up enough with Pearl Attaway – and God help him Evie would _never_ learn how badly he'd cocked that up – er, poor choice of words. Jacob didn't want to admit the trouble he got into now that he was a little too free in the world.

That...

Wasn't how it should be...

He felt guilty.

He'd have to do something for her.

Later. Today he needed to see Roth for his opinion on Firm but Fair.

They made it back to the train yard and Evie grumbled something about turning in. He followed her discretely to her car before she closed the door in his face. He smiled softly at that, some things never changed.

"Late night?"

Eugh. And some things changed for the worst. He looked over at his replacement, Henry "Mr. Green" Greenie. The Indian was at the other side of the car, having just come up from wherever Greenie usually came from, eyes alight for his bloody sister and _God_ , Jacob hated that man sometimes.

"Yes," the younger twin said simply, suddenly sour. "A night that stretched up 'til morning."

"Nothing bad I hope?" he said tentatively, looking and sounding uncertain. Good, Jacob _liked_ keeping the man on his toes, remind him who was _really_ close to his sister. ...The sting of their current distance notwithstanding.

"No," Jacob replied, "Just staying up all night to help me interrogate a crooked former Blighter and learning what an arse he was."

"Ah," Greenie said, not at all sounding like he understood anything. Bloody git. "I'll stop by later then; perhaps with flowers? Elderflower and white poppies, given the long night."

"Maybe morning glories and yellow tulips," Jacob said darkly. Greenie stared at him blankly, still not completely educated in the language of flowers, and the younger Frye mentally rolled his eyes before shouldering past and into the dining car. He needed a nip after this.

No one was in the dining car and he walked around and behind the bar, crouching down and looking for a good beer. He had a fondness for Frye and Frye for obvious reasons, but it wasn't really _good_ and he wanted something half a step up from swill. He'd felt so good after the meeting too... Finding what he wanted he straightened up and reached for a glass. Greenie was still there on the other side, looking at him with that funny look on his face that he sometimes got. Jacob poured the glass slowly, not breaking eye contact, taking the glass and grabbing a swig, letting the burn slide down his throat.

"What?" he demanded.

"Do you..." Greenie cut off, eyes glancing down and to the side. He pursed his lips and tried again. "Has she always been like this? So... driven?"

"I think you mean single-minded, stubborn, self-righteous, and determined to be right at all costs."

Greenie blinked again, the slightly slower one that indicated he was rapidly translating words in his head, reminding Jacob that English was not the man's first language. He spoke it so naturally that the younger Frye sometimes forgot. "What I mean," Greenie said, rewording his question, "is has she always pushed herself so hard?"

That was an easy answer: "Yes." Evie had always been like that. She was always the Smart one, the one who learned things faster that her errant little brother and helped him through the tougher parts of learning. She spend nights locked in her room reading and studying until Jacob had dragged her out of the house. They spent hours sparring together for want of another partner, and however naturally physical tasks came to Jacob, Evie worked thrice as hard to match him step for step: learning finesse when she didn't have strength, pushing agility when she didn't have speed, whatever she could have an edge on. She was the good little Assassin, walking in her Father's footsteps so perfectly she was lost in his shadow, while Jacob fought tooth and nail to get _out_ of it.

Greenie nodded, thoughtful. "She will make herself sick if she is not careful."

Jacob had just been thinking about that, following her to her car before she slammed the door in his face, wanting to make sure she went to bed. He had wanted to do something for her – he still didn't know what, and against his will he felt a sense of kinship with Greenie. They both wanted to look out for a woman who almost always knew better. It made her positively unbearable at times, but when she did bow to it, it was a victory like no other.

"She's a big girl," he said carefully. "She can take care of herself."

* * *

Henry frowned, wondering what had happened the previous night. He had followed the Frye twins on to the train, seen the exhaustion in Evie's frame and the tension in Jacob's. Brother had put sister to bed, and now Jacob had that intent look as he stared at the bottle of beer in his hand.

Seven in the morning and Jacob was already focused on getting drunk. This did not bode well. With Evie asleep and Jacob drinking till he saw the bottom of a barrel, Henry decided he was best put to use finding out what was going on.

There was a whistle and a screech of gears starting to turn and with a small jolt, the train started moving. Good, that meant Agnes was here.

The plump woman didn't know much of what had occurred, only that the Frye twins had left shortly after Evie had returned at midnight and hadn't returned till about when Henry had come in, he might check with Rupert who had used a carriage for them.

Henry nodded his thanks and gave a polite bow that always sent Agnes giggling like a school girl.

Henry was always cautious when interacting with the Rooks. He and his Curios shop were a hub of information and his best methods of keeping the information flowing was no one knowing his other contacts or connections. If any of his more hard-earned contacts learned he associated with such riffraff as common thugs, his web would be cut to pieces. As such, there were relatively few Rooks he dealt with. Agnes, Graham, those who permanently stayed on the train with the Frye's, their inner circle of their gang. And even then, he rarely spoke to them when one of the Fryes were available. He was merely a ghost, passing through the train.

Victoria Queen ran the sleeping cars. Named after the queen and hating it, Vicky kept a tight ship with the sleepers, insisting that everyone be treated like a normal guest in case any citizen needed to use their reserved cars. It was a train, after all, and made regular stops and was a source of income.

Vicky saw Henry coming to her and let out a low chuckle before puffing on her pipe. "Well, the ghost of the train has come." She smiled, showing her tar-stained teeth. "To what do we owe the honor?"

Henry gave a polite smile and nodded towards the sleeping compartments. "I am sorry to disturb, but I need to speak with the Frye's driver from last night."

"Oh, pish-posh, that's no problem. He's barely settled, that one. Only just came back from the dining car."

"I thank you."

She showed her tar-stained teeth again, before taking him to his sleeper.

Rupert was rubbing at his eyes, coat and waistcoat wide open and shoes missing somewhere, yawning widely before looking at the new arrival. Vicky nodded and left them to their business, and Henry put on a soft, winning smile before asking what he had missed.

What he had missed was apparently quite a lot. One of the reasons for coming to the train was because he had confirmation from two of his contacts about Benedict's character and he had hoped to warn the twins about potential trouble. Too late, it seemed, and his fingers curled to soft fists as he learned another facet of his inadequacies. Mentally resolving to do better, he gave his thanks to Rupert and let the man have his rest. He moved back to the dining car, but didn't enter immediately, instead studying Jacob from just outside. The younger twin was on his second beer, holding it up and staring at the label before taking another swig.

Jacob... was not as he was when Henry had first met the man. Henry, over time, had been forced to learn how to read people – how to stay alive by reading expressions, glances, ticks of the shoulder. He could write volumes on the depths of raising an eyebrow, and while he felt unable to perform such deep performances on command, he was alive thrice over because he could read the performances in others. Jacob was the baby of the family, that much was obvious at first glance, and Henry had laughed when he learned that he was the baby by only four minutes. Still there was a childishness about him when he first arrived to London, lost in the fantasy of what the city could provide and how he could contribute. Coupled with it was a surface immaturity: petulance, the overwhelming desire to be funny at the expense of others, absurdly simple goals.

However this was but a facade, a rouse to hide a wellspring of dedication and hard work. Jacob pursued his goals with fervor and a sincerity that could not be matched – indeed it was his genuineness that drew the Rooks to him, made people follow him. Jacob was a whirlwind, and one either strengthened his gale or got out of his way.

That carefree, impetuous attitude had, over the last year, worn down to something darker, more visceral. Oh, he was still overly quick with his wit, smooth and genial, but now moods like this would hit him.

It wasn't that Henry didn't believe that Jacob could be contemplative, or even profound, but not like _this_ , not drinking beer and performing an outlandish stunt worthy of Maxwell Roth himse—Oh. It wasn't a wild rumor then that Clara's children had quietly passed to him, that the customers of his curiosity shop mentioned in passing. Roth did at last have a new toy, and Jacob was it.

From there, there would be the inevitable fallout. And after that, Roth's revenge – which meant Evie was in danger because of her brother's quest for freedom. Better armed now, he pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, watching the younger Frye in the car. What was he supposed to do now? Henry worked his mind, turning the problem over in his head and trying to determine the best solution. What was it Ethan Frye said? "Those of with the softest hearts were those who suffer the highest risk of pain."

That was when Henry realized what the problem was: Jacob was drowning in his own blood, the blood of his bleeding heart. He was hurting in ways that neither Evie nor Henry had noticed, and he found solace in someone who was – if reports were accurate – equally as angry at the world for slights committed upon his person. Nodding, he knew his course of action and stepped into the dining car, floor swaying under his feet.

"Are you feeling better?" Henry asked.

Jacob looked over his bottle, brown eyes penetrating and saying nothing.

That kind of mood then. Henry offered a soft smile. "I heard the story of last night. I was sorry to hear that someone the two of you chose had ended so badly."

Jacob shrugged, still baleful, and glanced to the side. "The problem's been fixed," he said simply, voice low and thoughtful.

"So I gathered," Henry said, genial and careful with his words. He leaned against the bar for a more intimate setting. "Will you be telling Roth of your exploits?" he whispered.

Jacob stiffened, staring at him. "... Wot?"

"My spies tell me he can be very charming," Henry said, nodding and trying to appear amiable. "His theatre troupe is tightly knit, the Alhambra is rather successful, and several people have told me he can be rather magnetic when he wants to."

"No," Jacob said, leaning back, lifting a palm up in weak defense. "No. You're not doing your 'master spy' magic on me, Greenie, I'm immune. You'll not blackmail me over Roth just to get some kind of snog out of my sister. I told you in the beginning you'll get _nothing_ from me in that regard."

"And _I_ told _you_ that I wanted nothing," the Indian said, put out that Jacob always assumed this with every conversation they ever had. He was more than happy to admit he was enamored with the Frye sister – even smitten, on days when he was forced to confront it. She set off his nerves in ways he could never get a handle on, made him stutter and act both less and more like himself. He understood that affection of any sort had to be approved of by Jacob and that the younger Frye most certainly did _not_. He also knew his luck damn well, thank you, and steadfastly remained happy to be in her presence. All of this was beside the point anyway, and he refused to let Jacob derail the conversation. He moved back to the point. "Does Evie know about it?"

" _No_ ," Jacob said, incredulous at the thought. "And _you're_ not going to tell her."

"No I won't," Henry said quickly. "But she has the right to know the danger she's in."

Jacob scoffed. "Danger? From _Roth_? The man's a bit of a cad, but no more than me."

"Oh really?" Henry asked.

"Don't tell me you know something I don't."

"Did you not just say that I have 'master spy magic'?"

Jacob was trapped by his own words. Henry gave a soft grin. "You seem to forget how long I've been here," Henry said. "I've watched him give directives to Bloody Nora when she was taking over the inner city of London. I was posing as a street sweeper at the time – Miles Brown, as I recall – and told her specifically to take any Bailey Boys she could find and string them up by their toes on light posts so they could take billy clubs to them. Then he went to another subordinate and told him to grab the families to watch the beatings. It was a two-day massacre." Henry watched carefully, seeing Jacob swallow, Adam's Apple bob up and down before he scoffed and tried to shrug it off. Henry would not be deterred. "There was also the time he told his lieutenants to lock the children of a subordinate – I never found out who – and chain them together before tossing them into the Thames because the subordinate displeased him. And there was the time a troupe member garnered more laughs than him during a performance – he was never seen again. There is a danger about him, and it flares most especially when he feels slighted."

Jacob's Adam's Apple bobbed again, wide-eyed and somewhere between disbelieving and horrified. Henry pressed his point. "The man may like you now, but the moment he doesn't you and everyone close to you – including your sister – are subject to his wrath. The day will come when the two of you break, and when that happens he'll go after you where you hurt the most: Evie."

Henry waited for the reaction; he had experienced the younger brother enough now to know it would be one of two reactions: anger or petulance. He privately hoped for the latter, because it mean that he at least heard the point.

But, of course, Henry's luck held true.

"You don't know me," Jacob hissed, leaning forward with intense eyes and swill on his breath. "You don't know Roth either. There's nothing wrong with having a bit of fun, _Greenie_ , and you have no right to lecture me. Nobody does."

Henry knew better than to press the point, and quickly backed off. "You're right," he said quickly. "Nobody does. But that means you can only answer to yourself."

Jacob stormed out of the car, scowling, and Henry was left alone with the beer, half drunk, and hoping he had done the right thing.

It was hours later when he saw motion in Evie's car, and he quickly sat on the couch across from the wall of clippings and sketches they (he) had accumulated for hunting down Templars, book in hand and looking for all the world like he hadn't been waiting patiently for her to wake up so he could talk to her. He had mulled over Jacob for as much as he could stand, but there were other things he needed to talk about and they came first. He kept his eyes on his book as she breezed past him, smiling in his direction briefly before making a beeline to the dining car to break the fast. He gave her an additional twenty minutes of privacy, not wanting to make a bother of himself, and finally joined her.

"I heard you had a busy night," he said as gentle introduction.

She looked up, rubbing her eyes before offering a soft smile. "I'll never learn how you find out about all this," she said gently. She finished her drink and nodded. "Yes, it was rather busy, and not overly productive."

"The worst kind of night."

Evie gave a quiet nod, signaling the server for another cup of tea. "It almost went well. That's the most disheartening part."

"Jacob's plea to the neighborhood?"

She nodded again. "It was ham-fisted, lacked any sort of subtlety and was far too theatrical, but it was _working_. Jacob was getting through to them. He had made a strong case on why Benny would no longer be the head of the block." The tea arrived. "Then he bollocksed it. Completely bollocksed it."

"Hanging Benny in chains?"

Evie stared at her cup. Then she discreetly glanced around, so delicately and subtly that Henry doubted anyone in the car even noticed. A slight shift in the seat and she was further back in the shadows of the booth and completely out of sight. Once hidden, she completely slumped, shoulders down, head sinking, hands coming up to rub her face vigorously.

A very vocal, yet very small part of himself took pleasure in this, that she was intimate enough with him to ignore propriety and etiquette that so dominated every aspect of England and just be herself. But he buried that under the far larger part of himself that was worried that she carried so much weight.

"That wasn't the Jacob I grew up with last night. This morning," she said softly. "We faced all sorts of taunts and teases back in Crawley. We didn't grow up like normal children, so of course we were ostracized. I've faced slurs and jibes all my life for just being a girl in pants. Jacob faced similar troubles, especially since he was always getting into brawls. All the local boys had more ammunition _because_ of the fights and using the same old taunts that could get him to fight. So why does little _Benny_ get to him so much that he became so cruel? What _changed_?"

One of the doors to the dining car opened and Evie was once again sitting up straight, eyes on Henry as she spoke to him, and smiling politely.

Henry wondered about the English sometimes. They always hid behind their manners and etiquette. Rarely ever expressed themselves freely, and even if they were inclined to vitriol, it was still in ensconced in the forum and rules of academia or debate.

This only increased his thoughts about Jacob and his connection to Roth, but by English custom, it was not his place to say. He and Evie were closer, by far, but he wasn't sure he had leave to speak that freely yet. So he held his tongue, and instead offered a distraction.

"I hope you don't mind wearing a gown," he said.

Evie looked up, an eyebrow arching. She simply said, "Oh?"

He gave an easy smile. "You will be meeting royalty."

Her eyes sparkled. "Oh?" she repeated, more intrigued.

"I have arranged a meeting with the Maharaja, Prince of India and hereditary heir of the Sikh Empire." He leaned back. "It should prove an interesting meeting and aide us in our search for the Piece of Eden."

Evie gave a delighted smile. "Most interesting indeed."

Henry smiled, glad to have provided at least something for her to smile over as Jacob kept bringing London down.

"Do we have a time and location?" Evie asked. "That will affect how formal I should be. I'll need to do some research on the Maharaja, do you have any books I may borrow?"

"I have many books from my homeland," Henry replied easily, "but they are not translated."

She leaned forward, eager. "How long would it take to translate?"

"By speech, easily. To transcribe, much longer with all the work we do."

Her eyes seemed to dance. "Then I shall have to accompany you to your curios shop."

Henry did not mind that idea. Not in the slightest. But she had other work to do. "I will transcribe the relevant parts," he said softly, "and have them to you by the weekend. But for now, I believe you have other work to worry about."

Evie let out a heavy sigh.

"Indeed I do."

* * *

Evie sat in a pub in the Strand, dressed more as a typical woman than her much preferred slacks, with Rupert, Graham, and Mary, ready to discuss how to handle the mess that the Strand had become. Mary and Evie could have passed for ironic twins, both in greyed out blue dresses and brown hair pulled into braids, save that Evie already had a twin and Mary had a longer, thinner face, the sagged features of many women who lived in Whitechapel. Rescued from a whorehouse in one of Jacob's first raids (that of course ended in a raucous chase through the maze-like streets and a last minute leap onto their _moving train_ ), she had a mind that nobody had ever bothered to notice and had the curious ability to predict the Frye's needs before they even said anything. Rupert was more Jacob's sort, rough and tumble, fond of drink, and utterly brutal in a fight. That said, his memory was near perfect and both were hoping – once he learned to read – that he would become a living camera, capture images in his head like intercepted letters and documents to store until they needed it. He had a long way to go before he grew up, however, and was the loudest voice at the table when he spoke.

Graham, running a hand through his thick mass of hair, listened to Evie's and Rupert's and Mary's description of the previous night, frown omnipresent on his face.

"I see our work is cut out for us," he said simply.

"Don't see the problem," Rupert said. "It was a good show, got the point across."

"'cept in the part where all the Strand is now terrified o' us," Mary said, pulling at the cuffs of her dress.

"Mary's hit the nail on the head," Evie said. "We can only make so much money in the fight clubs and the races and the intercepted Blighter shipments. Someone's luck will go south somewhere and I'd rather not owe the likes of Toppings and Ned a large sum of money. They're our friends for now but I've seen what both of them do when someone has a run of bad luck."

"Ol' Ned'll forgive us," Rupert said blithely, waving a hand. "An' if not, one o' us'll make her see reason. Jacob maybe, he fancies her."

"He's not a girl, Rupert," Mary said.

"Don't know what it is, but I'd still do her," the Rook said brightly.

Mary lifted her hazel eyes, gaze intense with years of experience with the likes of Rupert, and said simply, "You'll be castrated before you even touch him." Then, with a wicked grin, she added, "And that's afore I spread the word you like men like him."

Rupert sputtered for several seconds as his face turned bright red. Properly put in his place, Evie continued with her point. "Our primary source of income comes from the pubs. The taxes they make off that and the deliveries is twice as much as the gambling and grows with every pub we buy out. We can't hold the football tournaments outside of the pub and make the same kind of money, and they won't agree to hand over the pub if they're terrified of us."

"Why not just take it?" Rupert asked.

"Because then we'd be no better than the Blighters," Graham said with soft efficiency. "Violence of that caliber is only dedicated to the Blighters and other rival gangs, there's no point beating the workers and citizenry if that prevents them from earning enough money to pay into the pubs in the first place."

"We could try addressing some of Benny's points," Mary suggested. "Clara can make the rounds with her children, get Sergeant Abberline down here to talk."

"Sergeant Abberline doesn't have the time to do public relations," Evie said, "and Clara is getting a new assignment later today."

"To do with the envelopes?"

"Yes."

" 'ere now, wot envelopes?" Rupert asked.

"Ask when you can read you bloody git," Mary snorted.

"So what do we do?" Graham ask.

"That's the penultimate question," Evie said, straightening her dress before sipping her tea. "How do we undo the damage?"

"Is the answer not obvious?" Graham asked. "We talk."

Evie smiled, soft and wistful and sad. "If it were that easy there wouldn't be any gangs in London to begin with," she said. "Maybe yesterday we could, but after this morning they will all be wary, unwilling to trust us. They've seen the dark side of this gang, they know what we're capable of now. I suppose we do, too..." she added darkly, mind again wandering back to the horrifying image of Benedict falling into the vat before the chains caught him. Had her brother always been capable of that...? She shook the thought aside, fighting to fix the mess first before dealing with the source. "Some of the people here might listen, but not all of them. We don't technically need all of them, I know Rupert," she added, heading off the question before it was asked, "but first impressions are everything, and we were already on shaky ground from when we took the territory."

"Now we're in the red instead of the black," Graham said, former accountant. "The debt we owe the Burrough is increased now, and interest will compound the longer we let this go. I concede the point."

"If we cannae make a big gesture like Mr. Frye," Mary said, touching her chin, "Wot about a string of small gestures?"

"What do you mean?"

"They saw the big bad, so we show them the small good," Mary said, looking at her fellow Rooks. "Look after kids when the mum's are all shopping. Buy up some meat an' throw a party. Clean the streets. That sort o' thing."

Rupert scoffed. "Can't imagine Jacob mopping up a corner."

"I will," Evie said, the idea taking root in her brain. God bless Mary and her mind. "If it will erase this morning I'll sweep every road and back alley in this entire burrow. We have the carts from when we're smuggling the Blighter's goods, we can pull them in with some shovels and tackle some of the back alleys, the dirtiest places we can find, first; show the people we're not above getting dirty to help them out. Mr. Green has a contact at the fire department, they'll know the biggest fire hazards around here."

"Can make the new recruits do it," Rupert said. "Make the ole' Blighters clean up their own mess."

"Make it a punishment," Graham suggested, "Watch them squirm when some new young buck undoes all their hard work."

"Yes," Evie said, nodding. "How long would it take to organize this?" All eyes turned to Graham, the former accountant, and the thin man frowned in thought, eyes darting back and forth as he calculated.

"Two days," he said.

"Excellent," Evie said.

And so it was, two days later, Evie was in her oldest slacks and a beaten cotton shirt, bust tightly wrapped and handkerchief holding stray bits of hair back as she hopped off a cart in front of the very pub they hoped to eventually buy shares into with four other Rooks, one of four groups. More than a few eyes turned, Mary very deliberately walking up to the older twin. "Will there be anything else, Miss Frye?" she asked, voice pitched to carry.

"No, that will be all," Evie said, voice also carrying. "Let me know when you can find the sorters, any trinkets we can find will go to the families that lost in the fight for territory, the rest can be donated to the district for resale."

"Shame to lose a profit like this," Rupert muttered.

"No," Evie said, leveling a glare, "It's only our due after what happened with Benedict."

The alley behind the pub was absolutely _foul_ , Evie had another handkerchief to cover he nose and mouth in less than five minutes, and she dared not try to sort out the scents assaulting her olfactory senses. She had walked and ridden by sweepers by the dozens since coming to London, two of the first Clinkers they hired had once been sorters before they lost even those jobs. Now she had a much more intimate appreciation on why the job was considered back-breaking. Her spine felt ready to explode after only the first hour, her thighs were dying from crouching up and down with each shovel of refuse, and even with the five of them it was noon before they finished the one alley. After waiting for their _third_ cart to trot away the garbage, Evie sat on the curb, covered in sweat and pulling off her face coverings. She was going to take a bath for a _week_ after this.

A glass mug appeared in her line of sight, and she looked up to see one of the bartenders of the pub holding it, an odd expression on his face.

"Thank you," she said gratefully, trying to clean off her hand enough to take it. She couldn't make a good assessment of the taste, her nose was overstuffed with vomit, offal, vermin, mud and muck to really understand what she was drinking. She coughed at the burning aftertaste, however, and gave the rest of the glass to the bartender. "Strong," she wheezed.

The bartender joined her on the curb, still watching her with that curious expression. "You really her? Evie Frye?"

"The same," Evie said cordially. She wasn't expecting to talk to the locals for this, she wished she was more presentable, not covered in sweat and shit. "What can I do for you?"

The man opened his mouth, flapping for a sentence before closing with a noise of consternation. He sighed and tried again. "I wasn't expectin'... We all thought for sure... What are you doin'?"

Evie smiled, rolling her shoulders and shifting her weight on the cobblestones to get a better angle. "The Rooks made a rather bad impression," she said gently. "A fight for territory is one thing, but the fall out with Mr. Martin did not create, shall we say, a beneficial resolution to a problem that we've faced many times this year."

"What do you mean?"

She had him now. She saw Mary over the bartender's shoulder, gave her an infinitesimal nod, and made her case. "When we first started out in Whitechapel, do you know what the first thing people thought when we started walking around?"

The bartender shook his head.

"Relief," Evie said. "That's what we were told over and over. We didn't pick random people on the streets to beat for fun, we didn't steal women away for weeks at a time before returning their bodies to their families. They all thought that, no matter who we were, we had to be better than the Blighters. Then they realized what we _did_ – or perhaps, rather, what we _didn't_ do." The bartender blinked of course, confused at Evie's choice of words, and she shifted her weight again arcing his back subtly to try and stretch it out. "They were expecting all the usual things that comes with gang rule," she explained, "Racketeering, blackmail, extortion; they fully expected to hand over whatever money they had left to us. They never did. Jacob and I were too busy training the Rooks."

"What you mean training?"

"She means teaching them to read, giving them marketable skills," a new accented voice said.

Evie startled to see Henry walking up to them, dressed not in his Indian finery but in straight-legged cotton slacks, grey with thin white pinstripes, and cotton shirt under suspenders, waistcoat and jacket slung over a shoulder and bowler hat tilted back in the late summer heat. What was he doing here? And what was _she_ going to do, looking and smelling as terrible as she did. "Mr. Green!" she said, unable to hide her surprise and shooting to her feet. Pain shot up her back and a hand went to hold it, forcing herself to hide her wince and clean her hair as she could. "What brings you down here?"

"Your latest recruits," Henry said brightly, adjusting his hat. "They said you were cleaning up a mess, I did not realize it was literal. I came to help. Who is your friend?"

Evie pursed her lips and hid behind protocol. "Mr. Henry Green," she said to the bartender, "Owner of a curiosity shop in Whitechapel. Mr. Green this is..."

"Lincoln Williamson," the bartender said.

"A pleasure to meet you," Henry said genially.

"Likewise."

"I had heard the Rooks had freed more streets in the Strand. Is this one of them?"

"I'm sorry, freed?"

"Of course!" Henry gave a winning smile. "They saved my life you know," he said brightly, the picture of a man excited to tell of an adventure. "The Blighters were rather unimpressed when I asked permission to negotiate over their protection fees. I run a curiosity shop, and how much I make varies from week to week, sometimes day to day."

"Don't I know it," Mr. Williamson said nodding. "Don't make hardly anything 'til payday, and then it's back to stretching it all again."

"Oh, yes," Henry agreed, nodding agreeably. "I offered to pay a percentage instead of a fixed rate – a risk on my part of cutting further into whatever profit I might make, but far better that than have my shop ruined every time I didn't have the money to make a payment. Rexford Kaylock, the man in charge of the Blighters, he was quite disagreeable about the idea, sent several of his men out to find me. They even had guns! It was all very frightening, I'm not ashamed to admit; they were dragging me from my home when the Frye twins came swooping down from the sky, persuading my captors to look the other way and then bundling me off into a carriage. The ride was rather nerve-wracking, I must confess, but they dropped me off less than a block from my shop and disappeared into the night!"

"Mr. Green," Evie said, flustered, "It hardly occurred like that." What was he doing?

"You have always been modest, Miss Frye," Henry said gently, a spark in his eye, before turning back to Williamson. "Her brother is rather flamboyant, and takes quite some getting used to, but they are cut from the same cloth, those two, and would die to protect those around them."

Evie watched Henry, using his "spymaster magic," as Jacob like to call it: talking and talking. Gone was the nervous pauses or the uncertain glances, this was the Ghost of London, making yet another contact by telling stories, by being unassuming and thoughtful, by drawing out stories from the bartender about his family and friends. Evie was once again struck on _how_ he was so convinced the field work wasn't for him; he was a natural.

Eventually she let Henry work his magic, Williamson walking him into the pub and letting him talk, and went back into the alley.

Once her shift of shoveling was over, it was cart duty: driving it to and from an unused back alley for the sorters to look through for trinkets. The curses and moans could be heard from a block away, many people looked down the narrow to see what was causing all the noise, until they saw another cart of garbage be rode in and a new round of vulgarity made it all make sense. Evie wasn't using her back nearly as much sitting on the cart, but the summer sun beat down on her bare shoulders and somehow even her sweat smelled like shit. She felt positively dreadful as the afternoon wore on, and when she pulled up the cart for the last load, she cast eyes to the pub and the noises coming from it, a round of laughter filtered out, sudden and raucous and so warm that Evie was brought back to her childhood, the sounds of her and Jacob screaming as they ran around the fields, racing each other all the way to the river, the scent of sunshine and flowers, curling up by the hearth and watching bread rise, sneaking out and getting in trouble. She smiled, nostalgia hitting her hard, and tilted her head back to look up at the sky, hazy from all the smoke stacks and so unlike home, and yet...

Then she smelled herself and made a face. She was absolutely rancid!

"There she is!"

"Miss Frye!"

She startled, surprised she had let her thoughts drift so completely out on the streets instead of the safety of the train car. Was she truly that tired?

Unfamiliar faces came up to the cart and smiled at her warmly, men in jerkins and caps and aprons, workers now off shift, red and ruddy faced with drink.

"Is it true you wot taught folks to read?"

"You save that fella Mr. Green like he said?"

"You responsible for gettin' that Soothing Syrup off the streets?"

Flabbergasted, she stared at the swarm of men exiting the pub, and saw Henry in the doorway, in silhouette, just enough light from the waning sun to catch his smile. How did he...?

She composed herself quickly. "You'll forgive me," she said smoothly, "I'm hardly in any state to answer your questions thoroughly. It would be best if I retired for the night. I'll be back on the morrow to answer your questions, if you wish."

"Oh, come on, 's just a simple question!"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Henry said, elegant in his cadence and pitched perfectly to carry. "No true lady likes to be seen as Miss Frye is right now. She has just spent the day with her Rooks cleaning out the back alleys to show her good faith."

"Wait, that wuz _you_?"

"Why'd you go and do that?"

"You ain't like no gang leader I never saw."

The press of men and drink and sweat lulled almost as quickly as it arrived, and Evie looked down to see the magic Henry had woven, the Indian Assassin looking up with a soft smile, his affection obvious for any to see. She flushed, her father's words pounding in her ears even as she rationalized everything: It wasn't personal feelings, it _wasn't_ , they were just good friends and excellent at working together, it was only _logical_ that they spend so much time together and _damn_ Jacob and all his teasing for making her think anything otherwise!

Henry, oblivious to her wellspring of emotion from the pub door, gave a subtle nod and moved back inside, to continue casting more spells before disappearing as the Ghost he was.

Evie shook her head, a wry smile on her face, before flicking the reins and driving back to the station. She had no hope of getting on the train like this, and above all else she needed a _bath_.

* * *

Jacob waltzed into Alhambra and had the merriest of times. Roth had delighted to hear the story of Benny, relished the details of the poor sod's fear and vulgarity, was the perfect audience for Jacob's recount of events. The little rook squawked, a piece of wire in its beak and playing with it, making shapes.

Roth brought out the good stuff to celebrate the chaos Jacob had created.

"How did it feel, my darling?" Roth asked. "What was it like when the cad finally realized who was _really_ in charge?"

"It was amazing," Jacob said brightly, "I had his life in my hands, I could have done _anything_..."

"Pity you didn't kill the bloke."

Jacob frowned, surprised by the off-handed tone of the comment. "That wouldn't have done any good," he explained. "We're building trust with the citizenry, we can't just kill the locals willie-nillie."

Roth gave an enigmatic grin, his scarred face twisting into something dark, a little scary, and bloody well exciting. He didn't say anything, letting the silence make his point, and by the time Jacob left he was wondering just what that was all about. Why did Roth sometimes get that way? Give that wistfully dark smile like Jacob was too young to understand? Jacob _hated_ that gaze so very much.

But... at the same time...Roth never tried to make Jacob change. He didn't lecture or cajole or fix Jacob he simply... waited. Waited for the young Frye to figure it out himself. Not even Evie seemed to trust him that much and it made him feel... it made him feel amazing. He pushed himself after seeing Roth, tried to better himself even further to show Roth that he was ready for that last bit of wisdom, that final lesson he was going to teach. Even now, that disquietous smile in the back of his mind, Jacob wondered how he could next impress the man who was quickly becoming the only sane man in London after Jacob.

He got off the carriage at the edge of the Whitechapel, the driver not at all interested in crossing that invisible boundary to the depths of depravity, and happily walked up the street and into said depths, a skip in his step and a smile on his face. He adjusted his top hat, making sure the angle was _just so_ in his reflection in a window and adjusting the lapel of his jacket. It was sodding hot out but he always like looking debonair, dashing, and one could hardly pull that off in a cotton shirt and vest. No, the whole ensemble needed to be perfect. Happy with his looks he slowly picked his way north to the train station. The sun was nearly set, and he wanted to grab a quick bite to eat before talking to Greenie and seeing if there were any armor shipments from the Blighters he could steal. Roth had given him some, of course, turncoat to Starrick that he was, but Jacob wanted to get _everything_ , he wanted to show Starrick who was _really_ in charge of the city now that the Fryes were here. Three lieutenants were dead, four if Lucy Thorne was of any use outside of looking for those silly Eden trinkets, and the Rooks were in five of the six major Burroughs – well, four and a half, still needed to learn who the major gang leader in the Strand was, but the point still stood. Jacob was single-handedly undoing a century's worth of work, Crawford Starrick must be pissing his uptown fancy pants waiting for the London eagles to swoop down and kill him.

The green accents of the Rooks were intermingled with the drab grays and browns of the local color – or lack thereof, he thought with a smirk – nodding or waving as they went from one assignment to the next. He'd need to call an assembly soon, get them all in a good little fight, get the blood pumping. Jacob made a mental note to talk to Bobby Toppings again, see when the next major fight was scheduled. Jacob enjoyed cleaning house.

The train yard itself was starting to clear out, the distinctive white train of the Assassins looking like a ghost in the dimming light. Fog was starting to fill in, the factory smoke lowering at last into the nooks and crannies of the city. Someone was walking up to the train as well, Jacob couldn't see from his angle, but the _smell_ was obvious from even where he was standing. What was this? Some bilge rat like Nigel, sneaking around to get a look at someone famous? He didn't particularly want another dead weight on the train, one was enough after that disastrous night of drinking that nearly killed the little blunderer. Still didn't know what Agnes saw in the lout...

Ready to chase off a hanger on, Jacob pulled his hat off and his hood up, slipping into the shadows and around the yard, ducking behind their Iron Duke and climbing up to the roof of the train. He stepped lightly, his boots hardly making a sound as he angled towards the shadow. God, the scent was _terrible_ , was this a dock-worker? They never smelled good. He hopped to the next car, slinking along, trying to get a better look at the shadow. The silhouette never stepped into the light, he was good whoever he was, so perhaps not a hanger on? That implied something much more dangerous, but the _smell_...

Intrigued now, and a little worried, Jacob crouched all the lower, flexing his wrist and his hidden blade with one hand and slipping out his brass knuckled in the other, slipping them over his bare fists and evening out his breath. Shouldn't have had that last beer with Roth; oh, well, he was still miles above whoever this pillock was. Jacob edged to the corner of the car, angling again as the shadow changed directions, heading not for the train but further down, towards the depot. A mobsman, then, looking to pinch a purse or two? Good luck having any success smelling like that, mate. Jacob held his breath when the shadow finally stilled, willing himself to be as invisible as his sister could be, trying to remember what she did to become so ordinary.

"This isn't funny Jacob," said sister said, voice low and tired.

… Wait, what?

The shadow stepped into the desperately poor light, and Jacob recognized the shape of his sister.

Wait. _Evie?_ Smelling like a _sewer_?

Jacob lowered his hood and glided down to the ground, grabbing a lantern as he went and lifting it up to get a better look. Lo and behold, it was in fact his sister, buried under smears of brown and streaks of... Jacob's nose wrinkled.

"Stop staring, Jacob," she said, irritated.

"Why are you covered in _shit_?" Jacob demanded, utterly confused. "Did you lose a bet?"

" _No_ ," Evie growled. "Look, I've had a really long day and I just want to take a _bath._ I tried to go to a hotel, but they wouldn't take me; I tried to hail a carriage, but no one would stop; I tried the Rose Garden, but even the ladies there wouldn't give me a hand – and don't you _dare_ say one _word_ , Jacob, or _I will make you eat this shit_."

Ah, but there was no hope of that. Jacob's face was ready to split open with a grin from ear to ear, a hundred different quips running through his mind and wishing, oh, _wishing_ he knew where to find those new-fangled cameras to immortalize this in a photograph. "Well, dear sister," he said in a false conciliatory tone, "as the saying goes, 'shit happens'." She glared at him, which only prompted Jacob to add, "Maybe I should say 'tough shit'?"

"Jacob!"

"How about 'Holy shit, Evie'?"

She swung at him, and the foul odor that engulfed his senses only made him laugh all the more. He dashed out of her circle, and she just looked so _pathetic_ , and she _never_ looked pathetic; he wanted to savor this for as long as possible. "Oh, come now, dear sister," he said between snorts and chuckles, "I've known for years you're full of _shit_!"

"That's it, we're done here," Evie growled, turning around and stomping away from her brother. Jacob was not to be deterred, chasing her happily and hurling more wit in her general direction. Some of the Rooks at the depot started to turn and look, wondering what the fuss was about, and it wasn't long before several of the newer members, the ones from the Strand or the Thames were gathering 'round and having a jolly old laugh at seeing one of the mighty – and haughty – leaders of the Rooks taken down a peg. Evie's face was beet red under all the filth and excrement before cursing them all out and storming into the depot, pounding into a room, and slamming the door in all their faces. Everybody had a raucous laugh after that and eventually dispersed. Jacob was not so easily swayed, however; the Frye twins knew the depot and the train yard inside and out, and even the Assassin trainees, the Rooks they both thought were of the right merit to join the Order, didn't know all the ins and outs like the twins did. Jacob fiddled with his rope launcher and took aim, letting the wire pull him up to the roof of the depot. One open skylight later he was in the upper rafters.

On the ground level the depot was a maze of levels and rooms, but from up above one realized that they were just compartments blocked off from one another. He walked confidently down one of the major support beams before securing his rope again and lowering himself to a catwalk. Releasing his rope launcher, he was once again stepping lightly, only this time instead of stalking an unknown shadow he was sneaking in on his sister before she could deck him with her filthy fist.

"Just go away, Jacob," his sister moaned.

"Oh, come on, dear sister," Jacob said lightly from his perch. "You have to admit this is just a little bit funny!"

"No I don't," she said emphatically. She was still in her filthy clothes, but her boots were off and a bucket of water was sitting on the hearth, heating slowly to a boil. Evie was slouched on a stool, waiting to be clean. In this light, her hair askew, leaning on her knees, dirtier than mud, she looked a little more than pathetic. She looked tired.

Jacob frowned to see his sister look so worn down, and made a more deliberate descent into the ceiling-less room. He was used to the scent now, or at least it didn't bother him as much, and he crouched down to get a better look at her. Her eyes were dark and shadowed, and under all the dirt there was a sheen of sweat.

"Evie," he said softly, "What happened?"

She looked at him intensely for a long moment, chewing her cheek and thinking. Why was she even debating on telling her brother something? They told each other everything. Or, at least, they used to. Since coming to London that had changed – lot of things had changed – and Jacob was taken aback, not for the first time, on how distant the two of them had become. Evie had changed so much since coming to London, and he very little, and he wondered if they could ever get back to the old times.

"Come on," he said gently. "You can tell me."

A long, baleful look.

"... I was cleaning up another one of your messes," she said, wary of his reaction.

Jacob was confused. Defensive also, he always was when someone told him he made a mistake, but mostly he was confused. He could usually point out when he did something Evie disagreed with, but mentally backtracking for the last few days brought up nothing. What was so awful that made her look like _this?_ "What mess?" he asked. "Why do you always assume I make a mess? I've been doing so well here in London..."

He watched his sister deflate, sagging even further into stool as she waited for the bucket of water to boil. "I'll never understand why you don't see it," she murmured, so under her breath that Jacob almost didn't hear her. He frowned, pulling over another stool and sitting with her, hunching forward.

"See what?" he asked.

She looked up again, and she looked so _tired_. Evie took a deep breath through her nose and held a hand to her forehead. "Jacob," she said with a sigh, "Do you remember the old mill? The one father got you a position as a night guard for?"

"In Crawley? Of course."

"What was it like there at night?"

Jacob frowned at the odd question, uncertain where the sudden change in topic related to her being covered in shit cleaning up one of his messes. "It was bloody _boring_ ," he said. "Nobody showed up at night, it was just dim lamplight and hours of listening to the crickets and the rooks and the crows. Why do you think I just roamed the town at night?"

"You're missing the point again," Evie said. "What was the actual _mill_ like?"

Jacob shrugged. "Empty."

"Rather like some of the foundries and factories here?" she asked.

"I don't know. I suppose."

Evie arched her back, tried to straighten but winced, reaching behind her to rub her spine. Had she been injured, too? "What would you do if a stranger summoned us to that old mill?" she asked. "What would you think when that stranger had, say, old Mrs. Brooks tied to a chair and lectured us on what an old biddy she was?"

Jacob finally saw where this was going. "Evie..." he said in a warning tone.

"Please, Jacob, just once, don't dig your heels in. Don't shrug it off. Just imagine it."

The younger Frye shrugged his shoulders. "She _was_ an old shrew," he said. "She was always after you to wear skirts and dresses, she thought I was a right delinquent. I think I'd be happy to see her get hers."

Evie sighed, pushing herself to her feet and getting the bucket. She pulled a rag out and soaked it in the lukewarm water, immediately shoving her face into it and scrubbing back and forth. Pulling the rag away her alabaster skin and freckles were more visible now, still streaked in dirt but she looked a little like herself. Jacob grabbed another rag and added it to the bucket, standing up and going behind his sister, pulling out a few hair pins and wrapping it around her scalp. She moaned as he massaged the warm rag into her hair, just like when they were kids, and for a moment Jacob thought she would collapse into sleep.

"Jacob, you are a stranger," she said, voice quiet. "They didn't know you – don't know you, even now. All they saw was a stranger taking someone they knew and torturing him – 'old biddy' or not. How can they trust you to look out for them if you nearly kill one of their own?"

Jacob didn't say anything, just focused on rubbing the rough cloth into his sister's scalp, making her melt under his intimate touch. Her exhaustion eventually won out, and she finally held herself completely still, letting her brother clean her. Jacob methodically dipped the rags in the warm water, washing down her neck and arms, her feet and legs. Privacy forbade him cleaning every inch of her, and the thought unexpectedly brought up Greenie that made him nearly growl in the quiet of the room, but he pushed the thought aside and focused on his sister instead.

He did remember the old mill in Crawley – nothing like here in London, it was small, with a broken waterwheel, a place to hold the occasional card game or sneak out a bottle of something with the lads. Sometimes a girl was snuck in, though Jacob was always conveniently not there when that happened. The foundries and factories here... they were enormous, hundreds of moving parts and dials to monitor and alcoves to explore, great liquid pools of metal and smoke everywhere, it was the picture of _life_ , always something happening, always a hint of danger and excitement. A shut down factory was a shell, a ghost of what could be and empty and sad. What he had done to Benny...

An uncomfortable feeling settled in the pit of his stomach as he remembered Benny's face when he was lifted up by the chains, remembered the gasps of the crowd and having a very different understanding of what it meant. The revelry he had with Roth over the course of the day felt empty now, as he started to see what Evie had seen last night. He didn't want to admit it, but he might well have made a mistake.

He _hated_ the feeling of making a mistake.

He was acutely aware that he was the failure of the two of them, the one who always cocked it up and never did it as good as Evie. He spent most of his childhood burning in shame when he was once more told to "do it again," or "not so fast," or "think it through, boy! Too much haste is too little speed!" His failures were so constantly delineated he was hypersensitive to anything he did wrong, instantaneously throwing up a defense before he could be hurt again.

Jacob was so busy protecting himself that he often didn't realize that there really _was_ a mistake, and there really _was_ something to learn. He didn't have the knack to look outside himself and see it the way everybody else seemed to. He wondered if Evie would always have to point out his mistakes... he didn't think he could take it. Father had been bad enough. But in this, at least, she had a point.

Evie was nearly asleep after his work, her eyes opened blearily as he finished up. He helped her up, and she swayed on her feet dangerously before she woke up enough to steady herself.

"Jacob..." she said softly, turning to look up to her brother. "Why did you have them all laugh at me?"

"What?"

"Just now," she said, and for once she wasn't perfectly composed or shrugging off her emotions. Her voice was level, but there was a pain in her eyes, soft and almost perfectly hidden, a tightness at an old pain. "I worked so hard today..."

Jacob understood the rest. "I know," he said softly. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

"Jacob, you never realize unless it's pointed out to you."

That hit a nerve, but his Evie was so exhausted and Jacob couldn't bring himself to be defensive when she was this vulnerable – no, when she _allowed_ herself to be this vulnerable. He wrapped a hand around her shoulders. "I'll talk to the lads," he said. "They won't say a word."

"It wasn't just me," she said softly. "We all worked, and there's so much more still to do."

"You never did tell me what you were doing to get you so filthy."

"Street sweeping," she said as they exited the office and back into the depot. It was well after dark now, her hair loose about her shoulders and still only half clean. "We started at the pub we wanted and worked our way west, there was so much _shoveling_."

That explained the sore back then, and it sounded like a perfectly Evie thing to do – go above and beyond to make right one of his million wrongs, willing to bring that much shit – literally, today – upon herself to shield her wayward brother even just a little bit. Jacob hated himself all the more.

"Uncle Jake, Uncle Jake..."

One of the boys came up, barely ten, a hanger-on who wanted something. Well, he'd have to wait. Evie came first. "Not now Jackie, lad," he said dismissively.

"But Uncle Jake..."

"I said _not now_ ," Jacob hissed, glaring at the little boy. "See me tomorrow."

The lad look crushed, but he nodded and disappeared into the shadows.

"You shouldn't be so hard," Evie said, a little more alert now. "He idolizes you."

"Shh, let's get you to bed, first."

"I'm too dirty for the train," she moaned. "I need a _bath_."

"We still have the old cots," Jacob said, "and I'll have a hot bath set for you when you wake."

Evie turned, giving Jacob a wistful, fond look. "That's the Jacob I remember," she said, and her smile was beautiful.

It was perhaps an hour later when she was finally settled – not necessarily to sleep, she was saying something about the old Kenway journals again and Jacob knew better than to try and make her sleep. More likely than not she'd be passed out at her desk, making her back hurt even worse in the morning, and Jacob had a lot to do before that happened.

He called a meeting of all the Rooks on hand, gathering them in the back of the depot and lighting the lanterns. "Right," he said simply, "Let's clear the air about a few things. We all had a good laugh at my sister when she came in today, yeah?"

More than a few grins spread across the group. Jacob realized belatedly he didn't know everyone's names, they were recruiting so many so fast; he'd left it to his lieutenants, but maybe that was a stupid idea. He'd have to get the know the new lads better... next heist, maybe, if Ned was still speaking to him after the Attaway affair. Another thing on his list.

"Wipe those grins off your faces right now," he said in a low voice. "Try to grin when you realize she and a different branch of the Rooks were doing street sweeping."

Several were still grinning, but a few frowned and cocked their heads in confusion. "Wot for?" one of them... Jones?... asked.

"Because we're the Rooks," Jacob said, intensity in his voice. "We're not the same as the Blighters or the Clinkers or any of the other gangs that run around the back alleys. We don't just huddle 'round a fire sharing in misery, we make ourselves _better_. You're learning to read. You're learning to use your head. You're learning how to get jobs. We make ourselves better to make _London_ better. We're the back of this city, and if _we_ don't stand up and make things right the whole city will go to rot, and we'll be exactly where we were when we started, poor and desperate and trying to find a way to survive. _My sister_ just spent today shoveling out garbage from the back alleys of the Strand. How many of you live there or have family there?"

Several raised their hands.

"How smelly are the streets this time of year? Evie was hip deep in all of that to make your city _better_ , and we all laughed at it."

Nobody was grinning now, the passion in Jacob's voice overtaking them, making them realize the depths of what they had just done. They had all just laughed at the epitome of what the Rooks were all about, and the breaking of their ideals shook more than a few, some of the Whitechapel lads especially lost color, because the principles were all they _had_ , and it was a gut punch to realize how quickly they had strayed. Three that Jacob could see shrugged, uncaring. His eyes narrowed. _They_ were going to be out by the end of the week if they kept up _that_ attitude. He'd get their names later.

"Wot do we do, Mr. Frye?"

"First step, all of us are going to find a way to thank her at some point tomorrow for her work. Second, she and every other Rook that worked in the Strand yesterday gets a bath and their clothes laundered. Are there any wives in Whitechapel that are short on quid?"

"Mrs. Mason always needs a few tuppence to feed the kids."

"Ol' Miss Nellie."

"Sally O'Neal."

"Set it up; they'll clean the clothes for some money. Baths will be harder, not a lot of establishments will take them, so we have to arrange for it here. Barrels on a fire, filled with water, and someone runs out to get soap. We can set up behind the depot, curtain it off."

Two men shared a lecherous look and Jacob slammed his fists together cracking his knuckles. "Anyone peeks at the ladies, they deal with me," he said in a low, dangerous voice. "Then with my sister."

Several shuddered at the thought.

"Move," he ordered.

And they all disappeared to prepare for the next day. Mary, in the middle of the crowd, stepped up and offered a small, respectful nod. "She'll like this," she said.

"It's not enough."

"But she'll still like it."

Jacob went to the stables after that and hitched up a cart. He could tell by the smell which ones were used over the course of the day – they'd have to be washed, too, he'd get Rupert on that; man had a knack for finding things like this – and started riding to the Strand.

He needed to shovel, too.

* * *

Given that the lamplighters had already been out and then to bed, it didn't take much for Jacob to find the pub that he and Evie had been looking to invest in. While late, it still wasn't past midnight and the lights of the pub were bright, inviting, and there was still some off-tune warbles coming from inside. That was fine. They could stay inside with their windows blocked against the stench, leaving it as a furnace inside for the warm summer night with temperatures barely dropping below fifteen centigrade, and it was even warmer near the factories. The warmth of the day still clung to the cobblestones and the smoke and steam hung in the air, making everything damp and sticky.

God, and Evie had done this during the heat of the day?

Jacob worked the wagon into the back alleys, which were nowhere near as well lit as the streets and used the lanterns on his wagon to find where Evie and the others had left off earlier. They had clearly made steady progress over the course of the day, the alley itself scrubbed down once it was cleaned, and clear signs that the workers in the pub weren't letting it become a scrapheap again. Hell, they were easily halfway down the alley from the pub, six or seven houses away it seemed in the dark. That was a hell of a lot of work for a day.

Well, all Jacob had to do was match that.

The fact that Evie hadn't been alone and that she had had a lot of help didn't even cross into Jacob's mind. He had a goal, and he was going to do it before Evie arrived to start all over again.

Pulling out some extra lanterns he had brought from the foot well, he went about lighting the area and pulling out his shovel. He'd left his fine coat and vest back at the train depot, traded out for his oldest pair of boots and pants, and had rolled up his sleeves. A set of gloves for his hands, and he took his shovel to start digging in. Within a half-hour, he was sweating as shovel after shovel of dirt, soot, vermin, and trash was heaved into his wagon. The Strand did have one thing going for it. It wasn't as neglected as Whitechapel. The people took care of their little yards and home gardens. The alley itself was left to squalor.

It wasn't until after midnight that the pub down at the entrance of the alley finally started kicking people out. Off-key shouts that were supposed to be songs were belted out into the night, with slurred laughter and sounds of tripping and stumbling. Jacob didn't think anything of it, merely using the ruckus to note the hour as he kept shoveling.

A few came down the alley, most passing Jacob without comment beyond a glance. One woman, dragging her obviously tipsy husband had glanced at him as she walked by, but on the way back paused long enough to raise a brow and say, "You're still here?"

"Work hardly ends just because the sun sets," he replied jovially, offering an appropriately rakish grin, despite being have covered in grime.

The woman stiffened at the sound of his voice, before ushering her sloshed spouse off.

That made Jacob frown. The people of Whitechapel always smiled at seeing him, clapping him on the back, or an extra drink. The same for Lambeth or Southwark and what they'd managed to grab in the actual City of London or the Thames. People breathing a sigh of relief of no longer having the cruelty of the Blighters hanging over their heads, of safer streets, hardened criminals mysteriously heading off to the clink, child labor finally enforced to only working eight hours a day, and rumblings of some level of organizing workers to start fighting back for better working conditions.

Common, innocent, everyday blokes were supposed to be _happy_ with the Rooks.

And in that one moment, Jacob truly understood the enormity of the cock-up he'd produced. Respect wasn't going to be just given to him. He was going to have to earn it. And he was going to have to work even _harder_ , because his first true impression of this block was so abysmal.

He grunted as he kept digging.

It was some time past one in the morning, Big Ben a distant echo in the night, when a white shadow came over with a bottle of something that was likely alcoholic which would _really_ hit the spot with how he was feeling at the moment.

"Greenie," Jacob greeted, taking the bottle, popping the top taking a large gulp. Then coughed from swallowing too fast.

Henry only nodded, face deep in thought.

Jacob sniffed, and shambled over to the lantern on the wagon, looking at what he had just swallowed. India beer? He hadn't even known they'd made any. He took a more controlled sip and just let the taste settle. Henry just kept standing there. Jacob let him. He had a task to do, and a little liquid to grease up the works was very welcome. God only knew where Henry came from, Jacob was too focused on his work to notice the arrival, or care.

"When your father Ethan first brought me here, my job was as a navvy digging out the Metropolitan Railway," Henry said quietly, staring up at the stars. "Ten meters below the streets, cut-and-cover, retaining walls were all that kept tons of dirt from collapsing onto us, and problems like boiler explosions, trains falling into the workings at King's Cross, a collapse that brought the adjoining buildings down and the memorable flooding of the Fleet Street sewer into the works."

Jacob took another swig of his drink.

"Navvies didn't get homes, just a shanty town. Lots of cholera, dysentery, typhus claiming workers. Every mile of rail averaged three deaths or more. And that did not even get into the people who were angry because they'd been evicted to have their homes destroyed as we cut the trench and then covered it." Henry gave a low, deprecating chuckle. "The slang was terrible. Always changing. Everything depended on the rhyme, and my English was only passable at the time."

Henry dropped his eyes from the stars to his bottle, then took a large gulp. "I chose to live in the Thames Tunnel. I stayed with the homeless, fugitives, and beggars in the back end of the tunnel."

"There a point in all this?" Jacob growled.

"I hated London when I first arrived." Henry looked straight at Jacob. "Confusing English, dangerous work, disease all around, cutthroats and vagabonds and brutes. But I knew Ethan needed me and it was the only place I could be."

Jacob couldn't quite stop the scoff. "Dear old dad, even with his pupil, still a right tosser." He knocked back another drink. "Couldn't get you set up, had to leave you hanging. Sounds familiar."

Henry shook his head. "Your father, like you, are _English_. You can move through the streets with familiarity and ease. I needed a better grasp of English and how the dangers of this city were different than back home. I understood what Ethan was doing."

"Doesn't stop the resentment," Jacob hissed.

"No," Henry acknowledged. "My first months here weren't good and I only had communications with Ethan from scratchings on a gravestone at a church. After..." his voice trailed off, the edge in it different than Henry the Spy Master or Henry the Stuttering Twat. That pause was heavier, darker, and Jacob finally stopped listening and started _listening_ , hearing Greenie for perhaps the first time, seeing an old pain that he couldn't even speak of. "After I left India," Henry said, and it was obvious to Jacob that wasn't what Henry _really_ meant, "It was everything Ethan could to do to just _get_ me in London. Our knowledge of the Templars was functionally nothing but their knowledge on us was deep and thorough. The only way it could work was if there was no contact. I _had_ to look like an immigrant, I _had_ to be alone, I _had_ to..." He trailed off again, and there was pain on his face, raw with the memory. "I had to make it on my own. I can't feel resentment to Ethan, because even after... everything... he was still trying to teach me."

Jacob stared at Henry in the shadows, a little incredulous. "You mean dragging you across the world and dumping you in this hellhole without a lick of advice or support to live or die by yourself was a _lesson_?" On second thought... "Sounds just like the old lout."

Henry gave a soft puff of a laugh, looking down at his bottle. Jacob took another swig of his beer, leaning back against the cart. He still didn't see the sodding point, but he was getting interested now, was seeing a side to Henry he hadn't seen before.

"I hated the city," Henry confessed. "The smells, the rain, the fog, the noise. It was nothing like home, there was no beauty, no culture; only the downtrodden, desperate for any scraps they could find in garbage like this," he gestured to the muck that Jacob had been shoveling. "That was when I met Maggie. And Charlie, tiny little boy that flinched at every raised voice and balled fist. And Jake, bright boy but too impetuous for his own good, broke his leg slipping on ice. Lost as me in the Thames Tunnel, with nowhere else to go and nothing to prove to anyone. They did not scoff at an Indian looking for work, nor a man just as destitute as they. The more time I spent with them; the more they did for me, and I for they... The more I saw the real beauty of this city. There are no gilded arches, or lush gardens, or spires or tigers or jewels or clear skies. But here in London, the real beauty of this city is in its people." He looked up, half his face in shadow, but the earnestness, the sincerity, in his face was compelling. Jacob caught himself staring. Swallowed. Couldn't break the spell.

"The people I meet here," Henry said, "They are all unique in some way. And they are all beautiful in their own way, even in their desolation and misfortune. It makes the work Starrick and his lieutenants do even more cruel, because for all their proclamations of bringing progress, they only ever enrich themselves, and they do it on the backs of the very people they claim to help. Their ignorance in their own hypocrisy is sickening. You understand that; you see it in a way I dare say Evie does not. You will stand with the people here, and help to lift them above the drudgery they believe is as it should be. You are... you are the epitome of the wallflower."

Jacob blinked. "I'm sorry, what?" And here he thought he was _getting_ at something. "All that talking and it's just to tell me that I'm a flower?"

"Fidelity in misfortune," Henry said, "You are proof against time and misfortune; you stand with and thrive on the ruins of this city, and make it a better place by the virtue of your solidarity."

Jacob blinked again.

"Look at what you are doing right now," Greenie said. "Here it is, midnight, and you are back here, by yourself, no crowd to watch you, working to make this part of the city a little better. Just like your sister."

Jacob felt his heart clench, and he took a guzzle of his beer to hide his wince. Greenie didn't understand, didn't know the _real_ reason why he was here, the mistake he was trying to fix. It made Jacob hate himself even more.

"You two are very rare in the world, and this city is better for having you. I am better for having known you. The people are better for all that you've-"

"Don't," Jacob said, unable to hide his discomfort any longer. "Don't laud me like that. Don't put me on a pedestal."

Henry's face changed, very slightly, a knowing look flickering in his eyes. "Then, perhaps, you should not put _yourself_ on the pedestal."

"I don't put myself-"

"Oh?" Henry asked, tilting his head to the side. "What was it you said to Evie on the catwalks that night? Demanding to know when respect would come to you automatically? What were the words you used for what you did to Mr. Martin? Example? Spectacle? Performance? Are those the words of a man who understands how to get his hands dirty and work his way up from the bottom? Or are those the words of a man who's been slighted and wants revenge on the perpetrator?"

"Evie already talked to me," Jacob said, voice low and derisive and wanting very badly to just get back to work. "I don't need this lecture."

The knowing look disappeared again, and Henry straightened off the cart, bottle forgotten in his hand. "No," he said; and for the first time since meeting him, Greenie wasn't weak or submissive or gentle or stuttering. He was _angry._ "You do need to hear this. You need to understand _why_ the world is to your mind turning against you, why Roth becomes more and more appealing, why you think everyone has changed when in fact it is _you_ who are slowly becoming unrecognizable. Jacob," he said, and he took a step forward, face now completely in shadow, the only thing perceivable was the steel in his voice. "You are not the only one who disappointed his father," he said, "At least yours did not try to _kill you_ for your mistakes."

Wait, _what_?

"Whatever your feelings for your father, you must at least acknowledge that he loved you. Take that and turn all that resentment into something positive, take what you've been left with and learn to _love_ it, and become the better person _for_ it. Then go see Roth at Alhambra and wonder what sway he ever held over you."

Jacob couldn't even fire off a retort, mind still stuck on the sudden and unbelievable revelation that Henry's father _had tried to kill him_ , and by the time he fully processed the words the Ghost was gone as if he never was, leaving Jacob in an alley with a cart half full of shit as fog rolled in and feeling like he had been manipulated. Again.

Damn that Spymaster Magic!

* * *

Evie woke up to her body being absolutely wroth with her. One tilt of the head and pain shot all the way down her back, snapping her awake with a deep groan in her throat. She pulled herself up from her pallet and more muscles expressed their intense displeasure: thighs and knees, biceps and triceps, her shoulders, everything. Loose hair fell in front of her face, and that made her start to look outside herself. Why hadn't she braided her hair before turning in for the night? For that matter, how did she even _get_ to bed? The last thing she remembered was sitting on a stool waiting for water to boil. Jacob was there, washing her hair, then walking through the depot, then... nothing.

She sighed as she looked down at her ruined clothes. She'd never taken that bath, passed out in the filth, and now she had to go back out and repeat all that work. The Rooks needed to have their high-profile faces doing the sweeping, and Jacob wasn't about to do it so it had to be her. Moments like this made her want to _kill_ him, but he wouldn't be Jacob if he wasn't consumed with adventure and the high that only a fight could bring.

Getting up was a job-and-a-half, but she finally managed it and arched her back as far as she could without too much pain. She'd be feeling this for _days_. Rolling her shoulders she walked over to the table and poured herself some water, washing her hands and then sinking them into her hair to start braiding and pinning. Glancing around saw that she was in one of the oversight rooms of the depot. Hadn't Jacob brought her to the train? The three of them, her, Jacob, and Henry had all slept here for a week after Kaylock had been killed, waiting for the fallout, wondering if the Blighters would seek retribution for killing a lieutenant and absorbing so many of their own. Henry had been ever positive, saying they now had two places to hide. Three once the train was operational. The thought brought a smile to her face.

She picked at her filthy clothes, but there was no helping it and she left the office and moved stiffly down the catwalk to the stairs. She was in no shape to leap over the rails today. One of the Rooks was there, pacing slightly, obviously waiting for her.

"What news?" she asked, pulling at a wisp of hair she had missed.

"Nuffin', Miss Frye," the lad said, twitchy and a little nervous. "Just wanted to fank you, Miss, for all the work you and Mr. Frye do."

She blinked, surprised. The Rooks respected her certainly, often the hard way, but they never really went out of their way to thank her. Jacob was the target of that kind of praise, and she offered a smile in return. "It's all for you," she said, reaching out to touch a shoulder but stopping herself, not wanting to spread her dirt further. "Are the carts ready for another day's work?"

"Miss Frye, they's already out," the lad said.

… What?

"... What?" she asked.

"The boys got together and worked out who 'ad today's shift. Mr. Frye said to; said you an' the others 'ad the day off. You's to have a bath, Miss, with them others wot worked wif ya."

… _What?_

"Follow me, Miss."

Evie followed, somewhere between utterly lost and mildly bemused. Jacob... what on earth?

The Rook, she never got the name but knew he was one of the new Whitechapel recruits, lead her out the depot and around to the back, away from prying eyes. Several Rooks deliberately walked up to her, offering a, "Good on you, Miss," or a "Thanks for the work, Miss Frye," or little Jackie come up to stare at her before muttering, "Thanks," and running away, sullen. A makeshift tent has been set up, old linens and sheets strung up to cordon off the area. Mary was there, in Rook pants and shirt with a soft smile on her face. "What's this, then?" Evie asked.

"Present from Mr. Frye," Mary said with a soft smile. "Wanted to thank you for all the work, he did."

Evie smiled as Mary pulled back the curtain and Evie saw the buckets and pales of water, boiling over fires in the warm August morning, steam waving the air. Next to it was a bench with three fresh bars of soap – that must of cost a small fortune if there were that many in the other sections of the tent – clean clothes, rags for scrubbing, and a basket obviously for the old clothes. Then, for extravagance, there was a brush and new hair pins. Oh, Jacob... She glanced at Mary and her smile was mirrored in their lieutenant. They exchanged a girlish giggle and Evie got right to work, peeling off her filthy clothes and dipping one of the rags into the hot water. It was _heaven_ on her skin, rough cloth scratching at all the grim and the heat relaxing her muscles. Next was soap, thoroughly sudsing every inch of skin before cleaning off with a second rag. Evie was intent on her work and reveling in the sensation of feeling clean one limb at a time. Mary stood guard beyond the sheets, and the elder Frye could see people passing to and fro, hear exclamations of surprise and some downright shrieks of delight at the luxury that yesterday's workers were being treated to. Evie let them have their moment, taking one of her rags and looping it over her shoulder, lathering her back and _ooooooh_ , that felt so good.

She dunked her head wholesale into the water, taking a third rag and scrubbing her hair in the soapy water before wrapping it up for later abuse of the brush and pins. She pulled on the pants and shirt, and for a moment she just sat on the bench, dressed and clean, and marveled at the sensation, wiggling her white toes and rubbing her hands over her smooth arms, smiling. Evie took the brush and gave her hair one last scrub before letting it fall down her shoulders. One hundred strokes, another luxury she rarely indulged in, and she began counting, letting her mind drift with the meditative quality of repeated motion.

She was on her sixty-fourth brush stroke when she saw a familiar silhouette outline her stall.

"How's she doing?" she heard her brother ask.

"Much better," Mary answered. "You want to see her?"

"... Will she see me?" Evie didn't think her brother wanted her to hear that question, his tone was soft, tentative, maybe even a little afraid.

Evie could have hugged him. "Oh, get in here, Jacob!" she called, moving into the sixty-fifth stroke.

She just heard the snort and could imagine the roll of the eyes before her brother lifted the linen and entered her clean haven.

Jacob looked exactly like she felt when she woke up this morning: dirty and grimy from head to toe, shoulder slumped and back carefully arched to avoid pain, hands shaky and raw. It took less than a second for her to realize he must have spent the night sweeping the streets of the Strand, likely alone, to once again prove himself. She shifted herself over on the bench and grabbed the rags and soap, giving him space to sit. He sat heavily, bench sagging under his weight, and stretched his boots out, groaning as he did.

Evie stood – still stiff herself but feeling alive again, and grabbed one of her rags. "Come on," she said, "Strip down."

Jacob offered a roguish grin, weak for his weariness, and started to shrug off his shirt. Their roles were reversed now, Evie with the cloth and cleaning her brother as he sat in destitute exhaustion and accepted the help.

"Do you remember when we were children?" she asked softly, massaging his scalp with a towel. "We used to run down to the beach and be covered in rocks and sand, and Gram would put us in front of the spigot and pump the water to clean us before we dared step foot in the house."

There was a half-remembered breath of a laugh. "Not just the beach," he said. "The mud from the river, or that time we climbed the mill's old waterwheel, or when we raced each other in the fields."

"And in winter she had a bucket already waiting for us when we came in from the cold, with hot tea and books inside for us to read by the fire while we tried to feel our fingers."

"Miss those days," Jacob said, voice soft and winsome.

Evie smiled. "Me, too." She pulled the towel off to leave a mess of brown locks of hair akimbo. Jacob was scrubbing his chest, hair curling as he did so. "I wonder if we can ever get back to that..."

"Why not?" Jacob asked, looking up to her, one drop of water streaking down the side of his face into his sideburns. "It wasn't all that long ago."

Evie sat on the bench, leaning on her knees and arching her back again. " 'The past is to learn from, not to live in,' " she quoted.

Jacob made a face. "Not Father again."

"Not Father," she corrected. "Mother."

"What?"

Evie looked to her brother. "You don't remember that quote? Father used to drill it into me all the time."

"... why?"

The older Frye blinked, realizing that he really didn't know this, he really didn't remember why he kept having that talk with her. Actually, had he even been there? She wasn't sure; they were together so much she just assumed... She ran a hand through her hair, rhythmic brushing forgotten. She needed to braid her hair for this, get it out of her face, look more presentable... "The Lincoln brothers," she said, looking down. "Do you remember them?"

He nodded. "Pushed them into the river, as I recall."

"Do you remember why?"

He shook his head.

Ah, he was such a _boy_. Off to defend his sister's honor without understanding why her honor had been so besmirched. She looked away, suddenly nervous with telling her brother this, of admitting how weak she was as a child, of why she pushed herself so hard to be perfect. "Stevie," she said, shoulders hunching into herself. "They wouldn't call me by name for almost a year, just called me Stevie, because of the pants. I'd been sick as a child, do you remember? I started combat training almost a year after you, and I couldn't defend myself when I went out to town for whatever Gram or Father needed. I put them in their place afterwards, and you shoved them into the river, but it bothered me for a long time. I remember sitting by the window staring out into the town, trying to figure out if I should be comfortable or be correct. Father used to say, 'Do you know what your mother would say to your sulking? "The past is to learn from, not to live in." You can't let what those boys said in the past bother you now.' I feel like he said it every night for an eternity, before I finally pulled myself out of it and decided that comfort had to win out over propriety." She looked up at her brother, a glance more than anything else, still looking at the ground, the bucket, anything while she admitted this weakness.

"I still think about it, you know," she said softly. "Sometimes it takes me over twenty minutes to decide which way I'll dress. But... The past is to learn from, not to live in, and one must not let personal feelings compromise the mission." She shrugged her shoulders, crossing her legs, looking at her pants, her ghostly white feet.

A shoulder bumped hers, and she risked looking at her brother.

His face was filled with emotion: love, sympathy, bitterness, realization to name a few, and he put a hand on her knee. "Next time we're in Crawley. I'll shove them in again."

Evie smiled, loved that her brother could just _say_ something like that so earnestly, would even _do_ something like that without thought of consequences, just to make her happy. Even as they grew further apart, even as Evie feared losing him, there were moments like these that were just so _Jacob_ , so _them,_ and for a brief moment she let herself believe her brother: that they could go back to those days, those happy times when they were children and the world was so much smaller.

They sat side by side, Evie clean and dry and Jacob damp and nostalgic.

"Mr. Frye," Mary said.

"Yes, come in," Jacob said, straightening and standing, not without a wince. Evie followed suit.

"Have three peepers, just like you said we would."

Jacob's face turned into ice, his jaw working prominently before cracking his knuckles. The grin he gave was predatory, and the old Jacob faded away as the new Jacob took over. "Well then," he said with a coy voice. "Let's see what we can do about that."

The shift broke Evie's heart, and she took a breath, about to say something before thinking better of it. Her dear brother needed to learn, and he always had to learn the hard way. She collected her things, the dirty clothes in the basket and the brush and rags. The past is not to live in...

She left her brother to deal with the problem, instead heading back to the depot, wondering if she could help with the laundering or go back to the Kenway journals, find a clue to the Piece of Eden.

**Author's Note:**

> And you all thought we were done with AC fics... :P Nothing too special here, just learning more about Jacob and Evie, getting to know their voices. It's a one-shot, but like all of our other AC fics it's in the same "universe." Takes place in the second half of the game (perhaps obviously) and of course has a hundred and one details. Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Also, this fic was "Brit picked" by one of our regular British reviewers! Thank you so much! Also unbeta'ed by our currently overrun beta. She's in the middle of one of our big projects and she doesn't know we've gone nuts over a new series and are writing fanfiction for it. Sorry, Tenshi! Your summer is going to be super busy!


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